


Secure in Surrender

by RosalindInPants



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Negotiations, Begging, Body Worship, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Depression, Edging, Flogging, Food Kink, Hand Feeding, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Nic Santi is a very unorthodox Catholic, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-01-25 09:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21354040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindInPants/pseuds/RosalindInPants
Summary: After Rome, Wolfe struggles to recover from his trauma and adapt to life without his work as a Scholar. He turns to an old favorite form of stress relief: submission to Santi.A collection of stories to be updated whenever inspiration strikes.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	1. Cuffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Santi expected Wolfe to do was ask to be cuffed before he'd even fully recovered. But Wolfe asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted from Tumblr.

Santi froze in the bedroom doorway at the sight of his beloved, wounded Christopher kneeling on the floor. Knees apart. Hands behind his back. Chin up, though his eyes kept darting downward. Toward the fur-lined black leather cuffs on the floor in front of him. He met Santi’s eyes with a look of hope and fear intertwined.

He could not even begin to contemplate why Chris would do such a thing. Chris was clothed still, in the plain and comfortable black shirt and pants that Santi had helped him into earlier. His hands still could not manage the task of dressing himself, and here he was offering to have them bound? This could only be an apology for the difficulty of the past few days, the vicious nightmares and fits of panic that had tormented them both.

They’d apologized to each other with such acts of submission before Christopher disappeared. It was the only explanation that made sense. Chris couldn’t want this in the way he used to. Not with the scars of iron manacles on his wrists. He’d shown some desire for sex since recovering from the worst of his physical injuries, but that was a simple need of the human body that Santi had gladly tended. Not so complex a desire as surrendering himself to his lover.

“Oh, Chris,” he said, walking slowly and deliberately toward the man he loved, sick with guilt that Chris would even think he needed to make such an extravagant apology for something that was not at all his fault. “You don’t need to do this. I don’t blame you. Come on, let’s get you back to bed. You look exhausted.”

To Santi’s surprise, Chris drew back, shaking his head with a look of dismay. His hand darted out to snatch up the cuffs from between Santi’s feet, and he held them in one shaky hand, trying and failing to get the other hand through the circle of black leather.

Santi knelt before him. “_Amore mio_, you owe me no apology. I do not need this from you.” He held out his hands. To take the cuffs, to take Chris’s hands, whatever it was that Chris needed from him.

Chris shook his head again and tried once more, unsuccessfully, to get his hand into the cuff. He whined with frustration, looking up at Santi. “Nic.” The first word he’d spoken all day, and by the strained sound of his voice, it hadn’t come easily. He held out both hands and cuffs, again with that look of fragile hope.

Mind racing. Santi wrapped his hands around Christopher’s. It wasn’t an apology. Chris wanted to wear the cuffs. It couldn’t be sexual; there was no bulge in his pants, no arousal in his expression. Catharsis, perhaps? A safe way to process the things that had been done to him? Or maybe after being kept so long in cuffs, his wrists felt wrong without them? Surely he would have done this sooner, if that were it. Maybe he just thought the soft fur would feel good against his scarred wrists.

Or perhaps... Chris used to ask Santi to take command when he was overwhelmed with the demands of his research. He found it calming to relinquish control for hours, days, even weeks at a time, entrusting himself to Santi's care and control. Perhaps it was that release through submission that he sought again.

It didn’t matter. Chris was asking, and though Santi feared that being cuffed might do more harm than good, he could not find it in himself to deny his beloved so simple a request. They could always remove the cuffs if it went badly. He took the cuffs. Took Chris’s hand and slipped on the first cuff, heart breaking as he realized Chris’s wrist was so thin that he had to buckle it on the strap’s last hole.

Chris looked at him with such relief, the fear in his eyes changing to gratitude as he held out his other hand, trembling but determined. Santi took it and buckled the second cuff around it, watching his lover’s face as he did, looking for the slightest sign of discomfort. But there was no such sign, only a look of peace, the hint of a smile. Yes, this was what Chris wanted, and somehow, he seemed to be finding comfort in the cuffs despite all the horrors he'd endured while similarly bound.

“This is what you want?”

A nod.

“Can I take you to bed now?”

Another nod. Such was the extent of their conversation now, most days.

Santi gathered his beloved in his arms and carried him to the bed, climbing in beside him to hold him from behind, his hand over Christopher’s cuffed wrists. Chris’s hands still shook slightly, but not so badly as they had before. The cuffs seemed to be helping. 

“You are safe with me,” Santi said, barely above a whisper, running his thumb over the back of his lover’s hand. “I will not let anyone hurt you again.” The same reassurances he offered day after day, but for the first time in days, he felt Christopher relax as he spoke. "You are mine, and you are safe."

Chris snuggled back against him, sighing with what sounded like contentment. He seemed happy this way, or at least more comfortable than he had been in a long time. Santi wasn't sure he understood it, but he didn’t care. Chris was feeling better, and that was all that mattered.


	2. Flogging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfe wants some impact play to get his mind off of things. Santi's own trauma makes it a bit of a challenge.

Santi looked up from his book at the sound of shuffling feet in the hall. Sure enough, there was Christopher. With his red silk robe loosely wrapped and strands of hair coming loose from his bun to curl along his neck, he might have made a seductive picture if not for the dark circles beneath his haunted eyes.

"I need a favor, love," he said. His voice sounded steady, at least. Tired and more plaintive than usual, but steady. No visible tremors, either.

That didn't explain the flogger in his hand.

"What is it?" Santi asked, slipping a bookmark between the pages of his adventure novel and setting the Blank on the table. Carefully avoiding looking at the flogger.

"I can't sleep." Chris continued toward him, sinking down to his knees when Santi rose to meet him. He held out the flogger. "Help me get out of my head?"

Sheer instinct made Santi take the flogger from his partner's hand and step in to let Chris lean against his thigh. It felt right to stroke Chris's head, accepting his submission. 

The flogger in his hand was the deerskin, the softest one they owned. They'd flogged stress and tension out of each other many times with it, and used it to warm up for more intense play.

But that was all before Chris disappeared. Before Chris came home with his back torn and scarred with marks that looked all too familiar. The very thought of taking a whip to Christopher's back after he'd suffered such abuse turned Santi's stomach.

Blinking to clear that image from his mind, Santi stepped back from Chris to return to his chair, where he sat and beckoned for Chris to come to him.

Chris crawled to him. Dear God, the sight of that had an effect as strong as the memory of Chris's injuries, but in an entirely different direction. Blood rushed to Santi's groin. Chris laid his head on Santi's thigh, and Santi's cock rose as if straining toward him.

Meeting his eyes with a little twitch of a smile, Chris rubbed his cheek against Santi's thigh and said, "I will, of course, thank you for your generosity, my dear captain." His dark eyes flicked down toward the growing bulge between Santi's legs.

Santi tucked a loose strand of hair back behind Chris's ear, running the thumb of his other hand over the braided leather handle of the flogger. He didn't remember the deerskin feeling so heavy before. He hadn't thought of it as something that could hurt Chris in a long time. Not since they'd first started experimenting beyond the pleasurable pain that hands and belts could offer. So many years ago now. He knew how this flogger felt, both in his hand and on his skin, and he knew it to be a very enjoyable feeling either way. He could remember how beautiful Chris looked, stretched out with streaks of red on his brown skin, the look of wild pleasure on his face and the sounds of his moans and cries.

He could also remember Chris trembling and sobbing in the bathtub, cringing from Santi's touch as he cleaned dirt from infected whip marks.

He'd never been aroused and nauseous at the same time before.

Chris nuzzled his thigh, drawing him from his thoughts. Looking down at Chris's face, haunted but hopeful, how could he refuse? Running a hand over Chris's cheek, he asked, "You're sure this is what you want?" He never wanted to see Chris in pain again, but if that was what Chris needed, he was just going to have to get over himself. He'd indulged Chris's requests for restraints and commands often since Chris returned, and he'd seen how much comfort those things gave the man he loved. He had to trust that Chris knew what he needed now, too.

Without hesitation, Chris nodded.

"Well, then. Against the wall there, Scholar, and drop the robe." There was a time when Santi could have barked out the order without thought, but this time, he had to reach for a sufficiently stern tone. He wanted to hold Chris, to kiss away whatever inner demon made him feel that he needed to be flogged.

Leaning heavily on Santi's legs, and then on the arms of the chair, Chris stood. He had to be sore, Santi thought, watching the stiffness in his steps as he made his way to the place Santi indicated. There, Chris shrugged off his robe and leaned forward against the wall with his forehead resting between his hands. He looked exactly as he might have before his imprisonment, awaiting a flogging to take his mind off of the demands of his research.

He looked entirely different. His ribs still showed, and his limbs looked too thin, the muscle not yet rebuilt. His skin was still too pale, deprived of the sun until his scars fully healed. And, oh, the scars on his skin. Blotches and slashes in varying shades of pink against the light brown of his back, each one a reminder of pain Santi hadn't been there to save him from.

Willing those thoughts away, Santi stood behind Chris, flogger in hand. He tested the balance, checked the tails for signs of damage. It felt right in his hand. Natural. He took a practice swing, letting the leather hiss through the air beside Chris, then stepped into position. Taking a fortifying breath, he drew his arm back to deliver a light blow.

Before his eyes, Chris's scars turned to bloody wounds.

Wounds that he had caused.

Santi froze, bile rising in his throat, his cock entirely soft. The flogger slid from his hand to land on the floor with a thump that seemed to echo.

Chris turned at the sound and looked back at him, a storm of emotions playing across his face. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. That happened, still, when he was upset.

Though he knew he should have gone to Chris, reassured him, Santi's feet might as well have been nailed to the floor. "I can't." The words came out in a whisper, not at all befitting his role. He swallowed, hard. Found the composure to say, “Christopher, please. I don't want to hurt you."

A flare of anger crossed Christopher's face, just as quickly washed out by exhaustion. He crumpled to his knees. "Nic," he began, soft and pleading. His brows drew together in frustration, and he continued in sign. His hands shook, making the signs hard to distinguish, but Santi understood enough. Chris was begging.

That combination of submission and difficulty speaking was worrying. Whatever had distributed Christopher's rest, it had shaken him deeply. That wound couldn't be left to fester.

Santi dropped to one knee and took Chris's shaking hands in his. "You need me to be in command right now." He spoke in Italian, knowing Chris found the language soothing, and he didn't phrase it as a question. Questions could be upsetting to Chris when he was in a fragile state. Better to give him a statement to agree or disagree with.

Fingers interlacing with Santi's, Chris nodded. 

"I am going to need you to obey my orders, then."

Another nod. Santi kissed Chris's forehead. "Good. Go and get your notebook and pen." He rose to his feet, bringing Chris up with him. Releasing his lover's hands, he returned to his chair, watching as Chris shuffled over to the nearby shelf where he kept a notebook and pen for times such as this, when the burden of speaking his thoughts aloud grew too heavy. 

The tremors in Chris's hands had spread along his arms by the time he returned to kneel between Santi's legs, the notebook and pen in hand. With a gentle hand on Chris's stubbly cheek, Santi laid his partner's head back in its proper resting place against his leg. "Very good, love," he said, sliding his hand back to loosen Chris's hair from its bun, sending the long black waves of it tumbling over his thigh and down around Chris's shoulders. Running his fingers through those waves, he continued, "You are safe. You are my Scholar, and I will always protect you. Always."

Chris hummed his agreement, the tension in his neck and shoulders loosening as he settled into his position, the tremors calming.

A single silver hair stood out against Santi's fingers. Chris would pull it out when he spotted it, but Santi ignored it, letting his hand continue in its rhythmic motion while Chris relaxed into his role again. When he was comfortable, he looked up to meet Santi's eyes, and Santi rewarded him with a warm smile. "That's right. You are mine to protect, and I will never hurt you." Santi sighed, the knot of worry in his guts tightening. "And that means I cannot allow you to use me to hurt yourself, either. I will not be the tool of any madness that may take hold of you."

The hurt on Chris's face was unmistakable as he opened the notebook and propped it against Santi's other thigh to write, _Madness? You never thought me mad for wanting this before._ Despite the tremors, despite the damage his hands had sustained, Chris somehow managed to make his handwriting reasonably neat. Not the model of precision it had once been, but steadily improving toward that goal with daily practice.

"You didn't have scars from a whip on your back before," Santi said, as gently as he could, willing away the nagging thoughts of what had been done to his beloved. "It cannot be healthy to subject you to the same thing that gave you those scars."

Frowning, Chris shook his head and wrote, _Does it not occur to you that I might like to cover them with marks from you?_

It hadn't, in truth. Santi let his hand travel down to Chris's shoulder to find the end of one of the wider, redder scars that peeked through the curtain of his hair. One that he remembered seeing as an open wound. He'd torn it open himself, unintentionally, when he was carrying Chris to the bathroom that first night. Striking Chris hard enough to leave a mark might tear it open again, for all he knew. New skin could be so delicate. He considered his words. "But you want more than that." If all Chris wanted was to be marked, there were gentler methods he could have requested. Paint or henna, even teeth or nails could have adorned his skin with proof of Santi's love.

Chris tapped the pen against the page, lips pursing with thought, but he didn't write. His hand shook, and each time the pen touched down, it hit a different place, creating a small cluster of dots on the page. More than willing to be patient, Santi waited. His fingers combed over and over through Chris's hair. Until they caught in a knot. Pulled.

A very light pull, by their standards, but the sigh Chris let out in response was unmistakable. His hand stilled, the pen hovering over the page without so much as a twitch.

The pain calmed him. That shouldn't have come as a surprise. But somewhere, in the weeks of caring for Chris since his return, Santi had come to see pain only as a cruelty inflicted on Chris against his will, not as a source of pleasure and comfort they had once shared. Slowly, with the same caution he would use to handle a flask of Greek fire, Santi wrapped the waves of his lover's hair around his hand and pulled until he heard another sigh.

The tip of the pen came down, and Chris wrote. _I want heat and rhythm and pressure. Sensation strong enough that I feel nothing else. Think nothing else. I want to feel pain and know that it will never cross the line into agony. That I can stop it with a word. I want to give you my trust, and to receive your trust in return._ Lowering the pen, he looked up at Santi, a thoughtful look on his face. _Do you trust me, love? To know my own needs? _

"Yes." The answer came without hesitation, without thought. He trusted Chris. Of course he trusted Chris.

"You aren't only worried about me." Chris spoke aloud. Soft, but sure.

"I-" The protest died on Santi's lips. It would have been a lie, and he couldn't lie to Chris. Not when Chris was on his knees. "I remember when you came home. You were so badly hurt. When I think about flogging you..." There it was again before his eyes, the image of Chris's broken body. "I remember," he whispered, as if that were explanation enough.

For Chris, it must have been. Of course Chris would understand that, haunted as he was by his own memories. Chris rose up on his knees to wrap his arms around Santi's waist. "Oh, Nic, love," he murmured. "I'm sorry. We don't have to do this."

Santi bent down to hold his partner, letting his hands trace over the pattern of scars on Christopher's back. His heart ached at the memory of seeing those marks for the first time. But Chris's memories were so much worse, and here he was offering to give up the relief from those memories that he had requested, all for Santi's comfort. Santi couldn't let him do that. He sighed, pulling Chris tight against him. "Yes, we do. What you're asking for is similar to the way that they hurt you, and that worries me. I don't want to hurt you. But we will do this. I will give you what you need." He stood, bringing them both to their feet. "Against the wall, Scholar."

Chris stepped back only to an arm's length, clasping Santi's hands, his eyes searching Santi's face. "If it helps," he said in a voice soft as silk, "This is a good kind of hurt. Believe me when I tell you that this is a feeling I very much desire, and that it is nothing at all like that which gave me these scars." He bowed to kiss Santi's hands, then turned and strode toward the wall.

With the flogger in hand again, Santi made himself look at his lover's scars, seeing them for what they were and not what the fear told him. The skin was healing. Chris was healing. He tied Chris's hair back up out of the way and traced the tails of the flogger over Chris's back, watched him shiver in anticipation. "We need a word," he whispered in his partner's ear. "Give me a word to call a halt." They rarely used one, but for this, he wanted the extra layer of protection.

"No code this time," Chris said, squaring his shoulders. As Santi drew in a breath to protest, Chris continued, "No special words. If I ask you to stop, whatever the language I employ, stop. Please."

Far too easy to imagine where that request might come from. Santi couldn't let his mind wander in that direction. "Of course, my love. Nothing is going to happen that you don't want." He kissed the place where one of the long scars crossed Chris's spine, right between his shoulder blades. "I'm going to make you feel better. Just stay still there for me."

The bloody images came to Santi's mind again when he raised his arm to strike the first blow, but he was ready for them this time. He held onto the flogger, reminding himself that there was no truth in what he thought he was seeing. The wounds that pained Christopher now were within, and the touch of the deerskin would be their cure, not their cause. He brought his arm down in a gentle stroke, only just hard enough to hear the slap of leather on skin.

"Mmm, I missed this," Chris said. "More, please."

Each blow came easier than the last, the images losing their power as Santi watched Chris melt against the wall, his soft moans loosening the knot of worry coiled in Santi's heart. He started light and slow, building the intensity of the strokes more gradually than he would have before, making sure that Chris was comfortable. Keeping himself comfortable, too, in all honesty. As Chris's skin began to warm and redden, he imagined the flogger a paintbrush in his hand, each stroke of it painting over the wounds and the awful memories. Healing them both with every slap of the leather.

Santi had just switched to a good, firm rhythm of figure eights when Chris cried out, "Stop!"

Heart leaping into his throat, Santi threw down the flogger to wrap his partner in a secure embrace, pulling him back away from the wall. Chris trembled in his arms, his back burning against Santi's chest. "It's all right," Santi said, keeping his voice calm despite the panicked racing of his thoughts. "You are safe. I am here. Breathe for me, love."

"Mm fine," Chris slurred, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at Santi. "Needed to know you'd do it. You'd stop. 's good now. More?"

The laughter that welled up in Santi's throat was a wild, half-mad thing, and it took him a moment to get control of it. Tears blurred in his eyes. It wasn't Chris shaking, it was him. "Chris..." He gasped in a breath. "Oh, Chris, I thought-"

Chris's lips pressed into his, silencing him. It started soft and clumsy, but built like the blows of the flogger until their breaths quickened, and Santi felt his cock hardening against his lover's body.

"Sorry," Chris said when their lips parted. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"No," Santi said with all the firmness of a command. "Never be sorry for that. I need you to feel safe."

Chris dipped his chin in acknowledgment, pressing back into Santi's embrace. "I'm always safe with you."

"Yes. You are." Santi tipped his partner's chin up for another kiss, finding Chris's mouth soft and yielding. Eager and comfortable in his submission. "We should take you to the bed, let you get nice and comfortable while I give you as much more of the deerskin as you want."

"Mmm, good." Chris turned halfway to wrap an arm around Santi's shoulders. Smiling, he lifted an eyebrow. "Other things we can do there, too."

"Yes, my dear Scholar. That there are." Santi lifted his partner and carried him to the bedroom.


	3. Rope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a very bad day, Wolfe takes comfort in rope bondage.

His legs quivering beneath him, Wolfe clung to the door frame with aching fingers and trembling arms. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath came harsh, painful, panting.

Only a little longer now.

Nic stood behind him, tying the final knots to complete the rope harness that wrapped in a firm embrace around Wolfe's body. Already the soft black silk ropes wound securely around his hips and covered the hideous, itching scars on his stomach in a thick interwoven band before crisscrossing up over his chest and back toward his shoulders. There was no restriction to his movement, only a constant, reassuring pressure.

With every knot, Nic built a net to catch him before he could fall into the churning sea of memories. Nic murmured in soft Italian as he worked, a poem by the sound of it, though Wolfe lacked the mental presence to follow its meaning. A simple rhyme and meter that flowed in time with the brushes of Nic's fingertips on his skin.

The final knot tied, Nic took hold of the ropes over Wolfe's hips and kissed the back of his neck. "You're doing well. Time for the final check now. Tell me if any adjustments are needed." A clear order, but spoken with warmth beneath its sternness. 

Wolfe nodded, not particularly wanting to see whether his voice would function or not. It had been a bad day, and he was grateful that Nic offered him the structure of a command rather than a more gentle inquiry about his comfort. Those sorts of questions stirred the memories that lurked beneath the dark waters of his consciousness, and they were already so terribly close to the surface, their sharp claws and jagged fangs ready to tear him apart. 

The order gave his mind something to focus on, and he paid attention to the way the ropes tightened when Nic pulled on them, the slight shifts of the knots. Nic had done his work well. He always did.

"Feels secure to me," Nic said when he'd finished, and at Wolfe's nod of agreement, he grasped the handle of rope he'd created behind Wolfe's shoulders and guided him toward the couch.

When Wolfe stumbled, Nic's grip on the ropes kept him on his feet, the ropes tightening against his chest and hips as Nic caught him. He got his balance again, and Nic's gentle voice assured him that he was doing well. A few more steps and they were there. Nic sat, bringing Wolfe down to sit on his lap. At Nic's word, Wolfe let himself collapse into his partner's embrace, his head on Nic's shoulder.

Comfortable. Secure.

"I have your robe here, if you'd like it," Nic said once they were settled.

There it was, red silk draped over the arm of the couch. He shook his head. The air was chilly, but he liked the feeling of Nic's bare skin against his own.

"The blanket, then," Nic said, taking the lightweight blanket from its place on the cushion next to them and draping it around them both.

That felt good. Not too warm, not too cold. One of Nic's arms wrapped around behind him. Nic's other hand gripped the ropes that twisted across Wolfe's chest, tightening the pull of the ropes around his shoulders. Wolfe felt his tremors calming, his pulse slowing. It was easier to breathe, being held like this. The memories seemed further away.

"There," Nic said, kissing the top of his head. "Rest now, my love. I will keep you safe. What happens next is your choice. If you need to talk, I will listen. If you need to cry, I will dry your tears. If you need pleasure or pain, I will give that to you. If you need only to be held, I will hold you for as long as you need me to. You are my beloved Scholar, and I am here to take care of you."

Wolfe let out a long sigh, leaning into Nic's warmth. He might want the things Nic spoke of. Later. Now, it was enough to be held in the safe embrace of the ropes and Nic's arms. 


	4. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up where the Nightingale chapter "Forgiveness" left off:
> 
> “Will you accept my forgiveness now, dear sinner?” Chris asked. “Or will you require more acts of penance?” Flexing his fingers, he reached out to stroke Santi’s cheek.
> 
> Returning his lover’s smile, Santi accepted the touch and the forgiveness that came with it. “Your grace is yours to give, dear Christopher. I cannot refuse what you freely offer.” Forgiving himself would not be so easy, but there was no need to tell Chris that. “But my work is unfinished. I owe your shoulders attention yet, if you will permit my devotions.”
> 
> “Hmm.” There was too much amusement beneath the look of scrutiny Chris gave him for those narrowed eyes to intimidate. “Very well. I will allow you to stroke my ego along with my body, if it pleases you.”
> 
> Santi bowed. “It will be my honor, amore mio.”

The pain was bad enough that Christopher needed help walking to the bedroom. Even with Santi's support, Chris had a hard enough time that Santi wished his partner would let himself be carried. He didn't even offer - Chris needed his dignity - but the symbolism of it appealed to the mood he found himself in. His cross to bear.

He was far enough into his own head by the time they reached the bed that, without thought, he dropped to his knees after helping Chris sit. Not at all the right position from which to give the massage that he was supposed to be giving. He started to get up, but only made it as far as one knee before Chris stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Still penitent, are you?" Chris asked. There was a wariness beneath his smile that made Santi's heart sink.

He'd made Chris uneasy, somehow. Or maybe it was the storm. It raged outside now, the wind howling and the rain beating down on the roof. He hadn't seen Chris jump or tense at the frequent booms of thunder, but Chris was getting better at hiding those reactions.

He took Chris's other hand and kissed it. "Does it displease you?" he asked, looking up into his lover's dark eyes.

"No," Chris said, his voice as soft and gentle as the fingers that turned in Santi's hand to clasp it and bring it to his own lips. "But I don't know if..." He sighed, his breath hot on Santi's knuckles. "What do you need, my love? Service? Or punishment?"

Punishment. The word sent a wave of arousal through Santi. Chris hadn't punished him, or even commanded him, since returning from prison, and Santi hadn't asked. The balance of power between them always had ebbed and flowed in rhythm with the stresses of their lives, and Christopher's needs took precedence right now. Chris didn't have the strength to take command, and he took comfort in yielding. Santi understood that.

Much as he missed the sharp bite of his lover's discipline, this wasn't the time to ask for it. "I want to serve you and honor you," he said. "Would you allow that?"

"Yes. But..." A thoughtful look came into Chris's dark eyes, and his lips twitched up into a smile. "Get my cuffs. Bind me into a suitable idol for your worship."

Santi felt a smile spreading across his face at the image already forming in his mind of Chris, bound to the bed with his arms spread wide. "Yes. Of course." After a kiss that lingered through three crashes of thunder, Santi retrieved the cuffs from their place on the dresser, only to freeze in the process of selecting tethering straps from the top drawer. While Chris enjoyed being cuffed, even found it soothing, being bound to furniture was another matter. They'd tried it only a handful of times, and each had ended with Chris panicked and shaking. "How do you want to do this?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Still sitting on the bed, his shirt pulled halfway over his head, Chris froze for an instant as well. Groaning, he dragged the shirt off in a movement so stiff it was painful to watch. His shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. "I hadn't thought... That won't work, will it?"

"Hmm." Santi remained at the dresser, his body still but his mind racing through an inventory of equipment. The spreader bar might work. The length wasn't ideal, but... Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the weights Chris had been using in his daily exercises. Small, but heavy enough that an arm tethered to one wouldn't move without effort. He brought three of the weights to the bed along with the cuffs and straps.

Before he could demonstrate his intention, or even ask, his lover's eyes widened, lit by a spark of desire. "Yes. A restriction of movement rather than a prohibition. You are a genius."

"Glad to know it isn't just you," Santi said, laughing.

Chris got comfortable on the bed, grimacing as he moved but refusing assistance, and when he had himself spread out on his stomach in the shape of a cross, Santi added the cuffs and weights. First the wrists. He knelt beside the bed and reverently lifted his lover's hand, kissing the back of it. Slowly, he circled Christopher's wrist in kisses, following the line of scar tissue where an iron shackle had left its mark and the edge of the gold Library band that remained, itself a sort of shackle. No matter how many times they did this, the trust Chris offered was still humbling. Not even the slightest tremor in his hand as Santi buckled on the fur-lined leather cuff, and a look of loving peace on his face.

"How is this?" Santi asked when he had the cuff fastened to the weight.

Chris lifted his hand, or he tried, but it remained anchored in place until he wrapped his fingers around the weight and picked it up with effort that made the muscles of his arm shake. Setting the weight back down, he let out a satisfied sigh. "Perfect."

Santi took his time with the cuffs, making a ritual of kissing each wrist and ankle before he fastened the buckles and attached the weights. With his lips on the scars that ringed each limb, he contemplated the irony of it. He, the distant descendant of the Romans, tenderly and lovingly binding a man into the form of a cross, seeking his own redemption in a process that mirrored that which had, according to scripture, already saved his soul. On one of Christopher's ankles, there was a raised, round scar. No telling what had caused it, but it made Santi think of nails hammered through flesh, and he lavished it with kisses. _I am sorry, Lord, for the things done to you. I am sorry, love, that I was not your savior._

When it was done, he looked on his love, already more relaxed with the cuffs in place, his eyes half closed and his breathing slow and calm. The sight reminded Santi of some of the more tranquil artistic renderings of the crucifixion he had seen. Not the gruesome ones that all but reveled in Christ's agony, but the ones that showed him looking down on the sinners before him with divine love. At peace with the gift that he gave and the pain that it cost him. Beautiful.

Kneeling on the bed, he bowed low to kiss his lover's cheek. Chris hadn't shaved for a few days, and the short hairs of his beard tickled Santi's lips. "Comfortable?"

"Yes. You?"

He didn't need to be comfortable. Not for this. But he was. It felt good to be on his knees, offering his devotion. "Yes." The word came out as a sigh. He let his lips wander from his partner's cheek to his ear, from his ear to his neck, from his neck to his back, where they found the scars and the knots of muscle that caused his lover's pain. "I pray that you accept this offering," he whispered, lips against the tense place between Chris's shoulder blades.

Chris gave a soft hum of approval.

Coating his hands in massage oil, Santi began in that tense spot with a firm press of knuckles into muscle that loosened beneath him. Submitting to his act of submission. No one took command this time, no orders were given and no punishments dealt, but each surrendered to the other all the same, giving and receiving in equal measure. Christopher offered up his body and the redemption of service, and Santi his care and worship. Love for love, honor for honor, humility for humility.

_Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. _

Christ. Chris. How easily the line between them blurred. How the lines of Christopher's scars stood out against the pale brown of his skin. Lash marks, some vivid and badly healed, others all but faded.

In the church Santi attended with his family in his youth, there had been paintings of Christ's passion, among them the flagellation at the pillar. It was beautifully done, the nude and straining bodies, the bright lines of blood, and long before he understood the feelings it inspired in him, he'd been drawn to it. He'd recreated that image with Chris many times over the years, in ways both sacred and profane, but never had he thought he would see his savior's suffering so viscerally drawn on his lover's body.

Those scars called out to his fingers, and his fingers answered the call, drawn to the worst of the marks, a slash of pain from shoulder to waist, crossing his spine. With gentle pressure, he traced the length of it, lips following fingers. Chris moaned at the touch, soft and needy, and Santi answered with more adoration to the next scar, and the next. He knew them all by now, all their patterns and shapes and itches and pains. He knew where Chris needed a lighter touch and where a firmer hand would give more relief. He'd learned the liturgy of tending them as well as he knew the Latin Mass.

Touch upon touch, prayer upon prayer. There were so many scars. So much pain Chris had suffered. A coil of fury twined with the knot of guilt within him. Once, only once, had Christ been scourged. Mere hours on the cross had been sacrifice enough to redeem all of humanity. The tiniest fraction of the year of hell Christopher had been forced to endure.

_My God, why have you forsaken him?_ _ Horus, Isis, Osiris, whichever of you should have been watching over him, why? What higher purpose could possibly have demanded such a price?_

Santi's hands moved of their own will, continuing the familiar pattern of devotion even as tears welled up in his eyes and his heart cried out.

_Why have you forsaken _me_?_ All his prayers for his love's safety, fallen on deaf ears.

Tears fell down on scarred skin, and when Santi kissed his lover's wounds, he tasted salt.

_"Why did I forsake you?"_

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he felt Chris shift beneath him, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Santi, his hands reaching for the weights that held him in position. "You never did. I told you, my love, you could not have saved me then. But you have saved me every day since."

Beneath Santi's lips, on his partner's lower back, was the faintest of lines, a scar almost faded but for the red swell of fresh irritation where it had been scratched. Chris had done it absently, idly this time. Other times, Chris scratched his scars with more determination, driven by madness or self-loathing. The regrowth of his nails was not always a blessing. Even the healing came with pain.

"It's so hard to see you like this." Santi's confession poured out with his tears. "You hurt so badly, and I..."

"Nic, love, look." Chris spoke softly, but there was something firm in his tone. Not a command, exactly, but an insistent plea. He laid his head back down on the bed and rolled his shoulders. Smooth, unhindered motion. He flexed his back in as luxurious a stretch as his restraints allowed. "You did this. You eased the pain. And you are giving me pleasure." He lifted his hips, not far, but enough that Santi could see a glimpse of hardening cock.

Santi couldn't begin to think of what to say. His chest was tight with emotion, guilt and relief bound together. An entirely different feeling kindled in his loins. Moving downward toward those raised hips, he kissed the ridge of his lover's spine just above his tailbone. An offering, a prayer.

Letting out a satisfied moan, Chris let his hips sink back onto the bed. "Yes, there. _There._"

His lord had spoken, and Santi would not deny him. Pressing his lips into that perfect triangle where back and backside met, Santi swung a leg over to kneel with his lover's legs between his, bowed over the altar of Christopher's ass. A fitting place for him to worship. Penitent that he was, he was not yet worthy of the divine favor Chris granted him, but he could earn his forgiveness here, in this most humble of positions. Slowly, he let his lips roam over smooth skin, climbing the swell of one cheek and up to the sharp crag of his partner's hip bone, then down again, until he reached the ruin of their shared quill and gun tattoo. He needed to pay his respects here, on this scratched and scarred skin, at this monument to the damage done to the man he loved.

Softly, he circled the mark with his fingertips, feeling the ridges of scar tissue and the rough, fresh scabs. Chris scratched this more than any other wound, as if by scratching he might peel back the burns and uncover the tattoo, whole and unblemished. In calmer moments, he'd spoken of having it redone, once the scars healed. Santi prayed for that healing as he kissed the abused skin. He released the tears that welled up at the sight of the mark and the knowledge of the pain.

And he moved on. Back up the curving hill of his lover's ass, the flesh of it yielding to his hands and mouth. Chris's ass always had been one of his best features, a perfect balance of firm muscle and soft padding, cheeks sized just right to sink his fingers into. Santi squeezed, kissed, licked, rubbed his stubbly face against those softer cheeks and drank in the sounds of Chris's quickened breathing.

Not so long ago, there hadn't been so much to squeeze. Chris had been scarcely more than skin and bone when he'd come home, and here, too, Santi could see his own work in his lover's body. _You have saved me every day since._ He had cooked the meals that put meat back on Chris's bones. He had held the spoon when Chris's broken hands could not and coaxed Chris to eat when misery stole his appetite. _I hungered, and ye gave me meat._

Chris panted now with a different sort of hunger, one that Santi shared. Very slowly, he drew his tongue along the cleft between the cheeks, neither parting them nor dipping between. Chris whined, squirming against his bonds to lift his hips even as Santi drew back his tongue. With one hand wrapped around each cheek, he whispered, "Would you grant this humble pilgrim entrance to the sanctuary of your temple?"

"Mmm. Yes." Sighing, Chris let his hips drop back down to the bed, There was just a hint of tension in the muscles beneath Santi's hands, but it loosened as Santi slowly, reverently, opened his lover to the offerings of his mouth.

Fastidious Alexandrian that he was, Chris had washed when he'd stopped in the bathroom on the way to the bed, using one of his Egyptian soaps that smelled heavily of spices. _Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices_. The words drifted into Santi's mind as he kissed his way along the skin he'd just exposed, and he couldn't help but smile. Chris liked the Song of Songs. Overwrought but charmingly filthy Hebrew poetry, he called it. Santi thought he might recite a few choice lines, when his mouth was done with its work.

First, though, there was penance to be done, an offering of pleasure to be made. The rosebud of tender muscle nestled between Chris's cheeks needed kissing, and Santi pressed his lips to it. Feeling the last of his lover's tension release, Santi traced a slow circle with his tongue, a declaration of the depth of his devotion. He was Christopher's, and no part of Christopher was too lowly for his worship. Indeed, he felt honored that Chris allowed him to offer this service.

Not only allowed, but enjoyed. Chris let out a contented sigh, and Santi switched to long, broad strokes, licking from balls to tailbone. He hadn't given nearly enough attention to this area since Chris's return. True, he'd helped Chris bathe, and not long ago, he'd helped him wax, but that was a different sort of care. Helping Chris feel clean again after the filth of the prison was an important duty, essential, even, and every bit as sacred as the penance he now performed, but there was a difference between caring for his lover's body and delighting in it. He'd done too much of the former and not enough of the latter as of late.

He felt a pang of guilt at that, one more sin to account for, but that weight seemed lighter now. He was earning his absolution, cleansing himself of his sins by giving Christopher pleasure.

Chris's breathing quickened, and his moans became louder, more frantic as Santi increased his pace and focused his attention on the sensitive area surrounding his lover's hole. Such lovely sounds he could draw from Chris. Such thrashing of hips, such straining of arms against weighted cuffs. Not trying to escape, but moving in response to the intensity of sensation. It wasn't easy for Chris to let himself go like this, even less now than before.

This act made Chris so vulnerable. Even without accounting for the cuffs, he was allowing such an intimate part of his body to be exposed and touched. Santi's mind struggled to grasp the depth of trust his love had given him. His tongue worked all the harder; he wanted to make himself worthy of this divine favor, even as his partner's body told him he was already worthy.

"Please... Nic, please," Chris groaned. Begging. Surrendering to the power Santi held over his body even as Santi offered his own complete submission.

Mutual surrender. That thought struck deep in Santi's heart, warming him from within as he placed a final kiss on the opening between Christopher's cheeks, a prayer of thanks for the trust and forgiveness he had been given. Lifting his head, Santi slipped a hand around between his partner's legs. "Let us see if the vine flourish," Santi recited, the Latin of scripture flowing easily from memory as he stroked the length of his lover's erection. Holding Chris's hips still with his other hand, he continued his exploration, caressing both balls. "Whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth," he continued, giving a gentle squeeze that drew a deep moan from Chris. "There may I give thee my loves?" 

"Yes," Chris groaned, twisting his pelvis to the side. No easy task with his arms and legs still restrained.

Santi moved to help him, adjusting his partner's feet to position his legs more comfortably. He would have moved Chris's arms, too, but Chris stopped him with a frustrated grunt when he moved in that direction.

"Nic," he groaned, "Please." All other words seemed to have fled him, but there was no question what he wanted.

Prostrating himself before his lover's cock, Santi was only too glad to offer that service. There was real pleasure in seeing Chris so beautifully hard, his foreskin drawn back to expose a head red as a pomegranate with a pearl of semen forming at its tip. It was a vision of poetry, scripture. _I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate._ As if he were taking communion, Santi licked up that pearly drop, savoring it on his tongue.

Left to his own devices, Santi would have savored every inch of Christopher's cock. He would have licked in slow and luxurious strokes and honored head and balls and shaft with soft kisses before he at last swallowed the whole of it. He would have savored, too, the burning of unmet need in his own groin, delicious desperation that throbbed in reminder of his penitent state. He would have been content to worship for hours to earn his satisfaction.

But Chris cried out in desperation of his own, his hips straining forward to push himself through Santi's barely parted lips. "Nic, _Nic_!"

For a fleeting instant, Santi thought of how, if he were in command, he would have pinned his partner to the bed and teased him to hear his own name cried out over and over as Chris begged for relief.

Begging for relief. Desperate. Helpless.

And here, now, Santi could come to his rescue. Had Chris planned that when he asked to be bound? Had Chris deliberately created the conditions for so perfect an atonement? His whole body burning with love and gratitude, Santi took Christopher's cock, sucking hard and fast. The strokes that would bring Chris to orgasm were etched into Santi's muscle memory by twenty years' practice, and he needed only to let his body find its rhythm with his partner's while his mind was consumed with prayer.

_ Christopher. Christ. Chris. My lord. My love. _

Chris reached his climax with a groan of relief, the hot rush of his emission filling Santi's mouth. Manna from Heaven. Spiced pomegranate wine. The body of his lord. Bitter, salty tears, transformed by divine power to sweet pleasure. Santi swallowed around his partner's cock, holding it in his mouth even as it started to soften. Gently sucking, he traced the contours of head and shaft with soft strokes of his tongue, offering now the reverent tenderness that he had delayed to attend to Chris's need. One hand found his partner's balls, hanging loose now that their load was spent, and gave them his gratitude for that gift with a gentle caress. His other hand followed the lean muscles of Chris's thigh up toward the sharp line of his hip, stopping there to rest on the scratched burn scar that should have been his tattoo.

It would be again. Chris would heal. With his help, Chris would heal. His faith in that was stronger now, with the burden of his sins lifted.

Sighing out Santi's name as if he, too, were praying, Chris relaxed, hips tilting downward as his body untwisted itself, softening cock sliding from Santi's mouth. "Nic, love, come here. Help me turn over." His voice was warm with the afterglow of his climax. Warm and full of love.

One last kiss on the head of Chris's cock, covered now by foreskin, and Santi arose to do his partner's bidding. Chris lay boneless, a drunken smile on his face while Santi unfastened his wrist cuffs from the weights. He seemed more king than captive, rolling onto his back with a languorous stretch before laying each arm back out to be cuffed again.

"Surprised you want more," Santi said, bowing over Christopher's hand to kiss it while attaching cuff to weight.

"You need this," Chris said with a nod toward the obvious evidence of arousal between Santi's legs. "If you are going to treat me as your God, I insist on giving you my blessing."

"Then I cannot refuse," Santi murmured. Straightening to climb back onto the bed, he felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of his beloved. Lying face up, with his long hair loose around his shoulders and a scratched scar bright and red on his abdomen, he looked even more like those lovely paintings of Jesus on the cross. Wounded, but transcending those wounds to become something more. Beautiful enough that Santi felt the prick of tears in the corners of his eyes. His savior embodied in his love. His love become his savior.

Santi went to him, a worshiper approaching the altar, offering up his body's need, all shame and pretense left behind with their shed clothes on the bedroom floor. The headboard was within reach, and he held tight to it, knees going weak even before his lover's tongue touched flesh swollen with yearning. With untainted love and joy in his heart, Santi knelt before his beloved and received his absolution.

* * *

Later, when Chris was freed from his restraints and Santi had cleaned his mouth to the exacting standards required after analingus, they lay side by side in the bed, basking in each other's company while the rain fell steadily on the roof. The thunder still rumbled, but quieter now. More distant. Chris kept the cuffs on, the straps disconnected, as he'd been doing more and more often. He liked the feel of them on his wrists and ankles. Though he wore no outward signs of submission, Santi held onto the feeling of humility within, allowing himself to wonder at the feeling of his partner's skin beneath his gently roaming hand.

It was the feeling of being in church, after the Mass ended and the priest had gone, and only a handful of worshipers remained in the pews, heads bowed and hearts heavy. He'd been among those few more often than most; his career as a soldier gave him cause enough to seek solace in prayer. But there had been times when he sat overcome with gratitude as well. Times when the danger had been great, and he and Chris had made it through somehow. That was the feeling he had now. Guilt and grief, impossible to erase but soothed by his penance, and above those, deep and all-encompassing gratitude.

They both were alive and together and healing. He marveled at that blessing as he trailed his fingers over Christopher's bare chest, drawn to the line of scars that matched his own. He remembered the bite of the knife and the deeper bite of the knowledge that Chris was suffering worse. He remembered the bitterness of defeat and the fragile hope that in giving up, he might save Christopher's life. The memories ached still, but it was a manageable ache, no longer a millstone of guilt around his neck.

He found himself quoting scripture again, reciting from the Song of Songs as he'd planned, but not the sweet and seductive lines he usually favored in bed. He'd memorized the whole of it, years ago, to impress Chris, and he hadn't spoken these lines since then. He wasn't entirely sure he had them right, but they flowed to his lips all the same. "I sought him whom my soul loveth," he whispered, tracing the first of the scars. "I sought him, but I found him not. The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me..." He should have skipped that line, but it was spoken before he could stop himself. He'd never intended to complain of his own pain. Not to Chris. But there it was, in lines of verse, God's own words.

A shiver ran through Christopher's body. His fingers, trembling, came to rest on Santi's matching scars. "Oh, Nic, I..." He stopped, going silent as he shook his head as if to dislodge some unwelcome thought. Rolling to face Santi, he rested his head against Santi's shoulder and said, more firmly, "It doesn't matter. I am here now. We are here now."

"Yes," Santi said, pulling his beloved close. "You are here. My Christ returned from the dead. My Osiris brought back to life."

Christopher's arm found its way around Santi's waist, holding tightly. "An apt comparison," he murmured. "But let us not dwell on that. I am alive, and I would hear more of your poetry."

Already, Santi knew the right line. With his arms around Chris, holding him close and safe, he recited, " I found him whom my soul loveth. I held him, and would not let him go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual for this series, assume Wolfe and Santi are speaking Greek in dialogue unless otherwise noted.
> 
> Assume that all Bible quotes are spoken in Latin. It seems reasonable to assume that in this alt history, the Catholic Church never stopped using Latin.
> 
> I've used the King James translation for all Bible quotes (with occasional modifications for readability) in order to render in English the effect of the characters switching between their everyday language and another language that they know well. Well, that, and the history surrounding that particular translation amuses me.


	5. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though he's recovered physically, Wolfe is struggling mentally. The loss of his career depresses him. Memories haunt him. But there's one thing he thinks will help: submitting full time to Santi. Needless to say, Nic is worried. This will require some negotiation.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings and kinks: Depression, suicidal thoughts, food play, hand feeding, mild humiliation, spanking, edging, begging, BDSM negotiations, imperfect communication

Dust motes danced in the sunbeam creeping its way across the bedroom floor. They'd taken on an iridescent shimmer that meant it was now afternoon and pushing toward evening. A beautiful sight. Peaceful.

Wolfe had been watching them for hours, lying on one side and then the other with his eyes half open, trying to work up the motivation to do something more. But there was nothing more to do. Nothing of value, at least. He'd spent the morning on household chores, but there were no chores left. A few times, he contemplated making an attempt at cooking dinner, but he couldn't justify taking the trouble to do it. The only thing he would accomplish would be creating a new batch of dishes for himself to wash. It was a foregone conclusion that whatever dish he attempted to prepare would be inedible.

He could have exercised. He could have practiced his handwriting. But what was the purpose in any of that? He would never again be entrusted with missions on behalf of the Great Library. He would never again be permitted to publish. There was no use in rehabilitating himself for a career denied to him. Even reading had lost its appeal.

The future stretched out before him, slow as the light's progress across the floor, and his place in it no more significant than that of those dancing specks of dust. Oh, there were other possibilities, but none of them likely. None of them pleasant. He could be murdered. Strangled in his bed, knifed in the back, poisoned. The Artifex Magnus no doubt wanted to have him thus dispatched. But too long had passed since his release for him to find that likely. He wouldn't be _useful_ dead, and the Library was not in the habit of wasting so valuable a resource as a hostage capable of securing the Obscurist Magnus's good behavior.

He'd been good for more than that, before. But it was no good to think of that now. It made him feel hollow, empty.

He could be arrested again. But that, too, seemed unlikely after so long. Not without some action on his part to provoke it, and how could he take any such action? His enemies watched him, and they had made the price of rebellion very clear. If he were to be arrested again, he would not be arrested alone.

That, too, was an unbearable thought. There were far too many of those cluttering his mind these days.

Best not to dwell on those. Better to contemplate the languorous stretch of days before him with nothing more to look forward to than Nic's return home at the end of a day's work. Nothing to do but lie in bed and marvel at how heavy his limbs seemed, how captivated his eyes could be by sunbeams and dust. How close the memories lurked, waiting to swallow him.

He couldn't go on like this.

There was the coward's way out. The knives in the kitchen, the pills Nic thought were well hidden. But then Nic would come home to see...

No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He had to _fix_ himself.

Or be fixed.

The idea that had been floating around in his brain for the past week or so surfaced again, and he rolled over, wrapping the sheet around himself as he considered it again. He quite liked the notion, to be honest. Thinking of it made him feel warm, safe. Made him rub his face against the pillow and sigh, embarrassingly enough. No denying he wanted it.

Nic, though, was another question entirely. Nic would, of course, worry.

It would be up to Wolfe to put those worries at ease. That was enough to motivate him to untangle himself from the sheet and get out of bed. He was halfway to the closet before it occurred to him that he was, in fact, committing to doing this.

Well, if nothing else, it would make life more interesting. He needed that. Badly. And if he was to be a kept man, the least he could do was be good at it.

* * *

Wolfe had himself ready and seated at the table just in time for Nic's return from work. At the sound of the key in the lock, he sat up straighter. For the first time in too long, his nervous anticipation as the door opened was mingled with relief. Nic was home. They could finally talk.

There was no way to back out of the conversation. He'd made sure of that. He wore his harness under his robe, the uppermost straps visible across his collarbones where the robe opened. The table was set with a good bottle of wine and his set of fur-lined cuffs. A single chess piece, the black king, lay on its side between the cuffs and the wine in their agreed-upon signal of surrender.

He looked right into Nic's eyes. Smiled. "Welcome home, my love," he said. "May I pour you some wine?"

He watched Nic's face as Nic took it in. Furrowed brows, a slight parting of his lips, a widening of his eyes. Worried, but aroused. Good. "Yes, please," he said, bending to unlace his boots. "Give me just a minute to change, and we can talk."

There it was, a patronizing concession framed as a casual request, exactly the sort of thing he wanted to avoid in this negotiation. "Must you?" he snapped. Not the appropriate tone for the moment at all, but he couldn't stop himself from adding, "I'm not afraid of your damned uniform." 

He had been, at first. It was the exact duplicate of the uniform the guards wore in the prison, and catching sight of it out of the corner of his eye still made him freeze, sometimes, before he saw Nic's face and shook off the idiotic paranoia. He wanted to be rid of that foolishness. The sight of Nic in uniform had aroused him, once, and he sorely missed those days.

Nic raised an eyebrow. "This damned uniform reeks. I've been sweating in it all day, and I'd like it off." He shrugged off his jacket and took a step toward the bedroom. "Do I have your permission?" he asked, with an edge to his voice that Wolfe felt in his cock.

"Of course," Wolfe said with a bow of his head. "You don't need my permission. Quite the opposite. I apologize for the disrespect." Overcompensating now. He couldn't seem to shut himself up.

"Getting ahead of yourself, aren't you?" Nic paused to look back at Wolfe on his way to the bedroom. "I haven't accepted your surrender yet, Scholar." He turned without waiting for an answer.

After a lifetime of High Garda service, Nic was quick to change, but not so quick that Wolfe didn't have time to sit with his heart in his throat and his pulse in his cock, waiting. The ring of command in Nic's voice had him hard and itching to slide out of his chair and kneel to await his partner's return. Instead, he stayed in his seat and filled their two glasses with the sweet red he'd selected from their wine cabinet. Nic would feel better if they sat as equals while Wolfe made his offer, regardless of what Wolfe wanted to happen once that offer was accepted.

There would be more than enough opportunities to kneel after he had Nic's agreement.

Nic returned wearing only a loosely tied robe, a blue and gold brocade one that Wolfe had bought for him on a trip to China. It made him look regal. He strode over to the table and took a seat opposite Wolfe. "So, you wish to negotiate your surrender," he said, picking up his wineglass. "What are your terms?"

"Indefinite unconditional surrender." He let the words roll slowly off his tongue, the taste of them rich and sweet.

"A generous offer." Nic swirled the wine in his glass, something he only ever did when he was thinking or trying to impress someone, and took a slow sip. Neither his face nor his voice betrayed what his thoughts might be. "No."

Wolfe felt the refusal as a knife to his guts. For a brief moment, he stared like an idiot, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, and then pain turned to fury, and he snarled, "No? Why not?"

"Chris..." Nic lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm happy to take command. You know that. But this... It's too much. Think about what you're asking, love."

"Think?" Wolfe slammed his hand down on the table, hard enough to make the wine splash out of his glass, drips running down onto the table. His voice grew louder, until he was shouting. "You really think I haven't? What do you think I'm doing with my days? Important research? Essential missions for the Library?"

Without a word, Nic stood and went to the kitchen. After a moment, Wolfe heard the sounds of cabinet doors slamming open, dishes rattling.

Crossing his arms on the table, Wolfe let his head drop until it rested on his forearm. The flare of rage guttered and died in Nic's absence. It always did. There was nothing left but the bleak understanding that he couldn't even do _this_ right. He was so broken that Nic wouldn't even accept his service.

_And why would he?_ whispered the poisonous voice that lurked in his thoughts. _What can you even do for him?__ You're broken. Useless._

A drop of spilled wine rolled slowly across the table toward him. If it reached him, it would stain the sleeve of his robe. He couldn't bring himself to care. He watched its progress, for lack of anything better to do, calculating the distance and velocity, for all that it mattered.

Its path was cut off, quite abruptly, by the quick swipe of a washcloth. A plate of sliced fruit came to rest in its place. Wolfe didn't lift his head. Across the table, Nic's chair legs scraped against the floorboards. Long, tanned fingers took a slice of apple from the plate.

"If I take command, I'm going to order you to eat," Nic said between bites.

"Why don't you, then?" Wolfe's voice came out flat. He wanted the anger back, but it was gone.

"Would you like it if I did?"

No. The answer to that was supposed to be no. Christopher Wolfe, gold-band Research Scholar, irascible and stubborn, would never tolerate it. Even when he'd given Nic total surrender before, it had never extended to control over his meals. It was patronizing, it was degrading...

It was exactly what he needed. "I might," he heard himself say, glad Nic could not see the shame on his face.

"Hmm. Let's put that to the test." Nic took another piece of apple and held it out to Wolfe. Sternly, he said, "Eat it, Scholar."

A wave of heat rolled through Wolfe's body, shame and arousal intertwined. He lifted his head, eyes fixed on the apple right before his face. Pale flesh, just a thin sliver of bright red skin that Nic had missed when he peeled it. Wolfe could have taken it in his hand and salvaged some scrap of his dignity.

But he didn't want dignity. Not now. He leaned forward and took the slice straight from Nic's hand, making sure to graze Nic's fingers with his tongue.

He heard Nic's little gasp of surprise over the crunch of the apple. He watched Nic's eyes while he chewed, slowly, and saw Nic looking back, his pupils wide in the green-brown circles of his irises. Something fragile hung between them; he could scarcely breathe for fear of shattering it.

He swallowed. The sticky-tart flavor of the apple lingered in his mouth. Nic picked up a slice of peach and held it out. With only a heartbeat's hesitation, Wolfe took it, licking the sweet juice from Nic's fingers.

"You really need this, don't you?" Nic said while Wolfe chewed. That gentle tone would have grated on Wolfe's nerves mere minutes ago. It was different when he was taking food from Nic's hand.

Wolfe nodded, not trusting his voice. He swallowed the peach and waited, lips slightly parted, for more. He could feel the stirrings of hunger now, the first his stomach had protested its emptiness all day.

"Let's say I agree to this," Nic said. He took a piece of peach for himself, popped it into his mouth, and held his fingers out to Wolfe with an expectant look.

Burning from his cheeks to his balls, his pulse pounding rabbit-quick, Wolfe sucked his lover's fingers clean. To his shame, Wolfe heard himself whine when Nic pulled his hand back. Another hot rush of arousal at the sound.

Nic continued as if he hadn't heard. "I would give you orders for your own good, and I would expect you to obey those just as you obey orders for my pleasure. Is that what you want?" He held up a slice of strawberry, round and very red, just beyond Wolfe's reach.

The meaning of the gesture was clear. Wolfe was going to have to openly say exactly what he wanted, not just for the piece of fruit that he damned well could have taken on his own, but for Nic's approval.

"I see what you're doing," he muttered.

"Oh? What am I doing?" Nic smiled as he leaned forward toward Wolfe. His finger circled the slice of strawberry in a way that looked positively obscene.

"Being too seductive to argue with," Wolfe said, but it was more than that, and they both knew it. Nic had him achingly hard, yes, but there were any number of things that could have gotten him that way. Nic had chosen one that brought Wolfe's submissive needs right out in the open and stripped down the barriers of his pride. He'd already admitted that he would eat on Nic's orders. It felt ridiculous to be embarrassed about the rest. Wolfe sighed and looked down at his hands, wondering if Nic could see that they were starting to shake. "Yes, Niccolo, I do want you to order me to eat, sleep, exercise, whatever else it is that you think I need. As I'm sure you can see, I can't..." His voice broke, and he looked up at Nic, searching for strength in his lover's hazel eyes. "...I can't go on like this. On my own."

Nic looked back at him, warm and steady. "You don't have to. I am here, love, always. If you need me to take command, I will do that." He held out the strawberry, and only when it was in Wolfe's mouth did he continue, "But I cannot agree to this indefinite unconditional surrender you've proposed. As you've just admitted, you're in no state to make that offer. If we do this, it will be with limits."

Everything Nic said was perfectly rational. Reasonable. He was asking Nic to go beyond their usual exchanges of power. They'd regularly traded control over sex, clothing, leisure activities. Superficial influence over other aspects of one another's lives, yes, but never anything so extensive as what Wolfe wanted now. Never without at least a tentative end date. Their careers would never have allowed more. 

Wolfe didn't have a career anymore. He had absolutely nothing to stop him from giving himself to Nic, save for Nic himself.

Irrationally irritated, he glared at his partner. Under the table, his leg twitched with nervous energy. "Accept my surrender, and you'll have the authority to set any limits you please, will you not?"

Not acknowledging the glare, Nic took himself a slice of apple and a sip of wine and sat back in his chair. "A fair point, and I will. For one week. Full debrief at the end of the week, and the option to extend the term."

One week was not an especially long term. They'd done periods of months in the past, though not often. Sometimes merely for the fun of it, but more often to help each other through one challenge or another. Difficult missions, overwhelming projects, losses and failures. Their longest so far had given Nic refuge from the horrors of his tour of duty in Philadelphia. With this, Wolfe had hoped to break that record and find that same comfort.

It wouldn't be the same with only one week. An indefinite term would have given him the benefit of certainty. He could do a terrible job of submission and know that Nic would still command him. A one-week limit brought the anxiety of needing to spend the time proving himself to Nic. Any failure might mean Nic's rejection at the end of the week. The thought of it made his hands shake hard enough that he had to pin them under his elbows so Nic wouldn't see.

A small part of him wanted to argue, but Nic's tone had been firm, and the larger part of Wolfe didn't want to fight. He wanted to give up, give in, obey. "Acceptable," he said. It gave him a goal to work toward, at least, which was more than he'd had before. He could spend a single week proving that this would be good for them both. After that, he could argue for more.

"Good," Nic said. "Now, do I understand correctly that you will accept any and all limits that I set during this week?"

Wolfe shifted in his seat, trying and failing to find the trap in Nic's words. The eternal danger of being a tactician's lover. He supposed it didn't matter. Whatever Nic had in mind, it would be for Wolfe's own good. He trusted Nic to take better care of him than he took of himself. That was, after all, the point of this entire endeavor.

"Yes, Captain," he said.

Nic favored him with one of his radiant smiles. "Very well, then, Scholar Wolfe. I accept your offer of surrender." His expression shifted, the smile fading, and his voice turned deliciously stern as he said, "Come here."

Vague, that order. Vague enough that Wolfe couldn't help seeing it as a test. His mind raced over the decisions of walking or crawling, standing or kneeling, pride or humility, but only for the space of a breath. Delaying would be disobedience, after all. Heart racing, he slid from his chair to the floor and crawled to Nic, shaky with the relief of it. It felt right to be so low, so blatantly submissive. He could lose himself in the role like this. He kept his gaze down, and when he reached Nic's feet, he lowered himself onto his forearms to kiss each one before positioning himself on his knees between them, hands clasped behind his back. A perfect display of obedience.

With his head respectfully bowed, he could just see the bulge in the folds of Nic's robe. Not fully hard yet, as Wolfe was himself, but getting there. A good sign. In that area, at least, he was pleasing Nic.

The gentle touch of Nic's hand on his head, long fingers running through his loose hair, told him he'd passed the test. "You're being so good for me," Nic said. His hand moved down to Wolfe's shoulders, stroking muscles tight with the effort of stilling the last of the tremors in his hands. "Still twitchy, though, aren't you? Here, let's see your hands."

So much for hiding those tremors. They didn't look too bad, Wolfe thought as he lifted his hands for Nic to see.

"Hmm." Nic lifted Wolfe's hands to his lips. Softly, he kissed each finger, but that tender gesture did nothing to calm the shaking. "You'd like your cuffs, wouldn't you?"

Yes. Gods, yes, it would feel good to have the constant pressure on his wrists, the gentle restriction of his movement, the physical reminder of Nic's dominance. But, of course, the choice was no longer his. Looking up at Nic, as he knew Nic preferred when he'd asked a question, Wolfe said, "If it pleases you, my dear Captain, I would like that very much."

"It always pleases me to care for you," Nic said. An exaggeration, to be sure, but there was nothing but affection on his face, and his hands were very gentle as he fastened the cuffs around Wolfe's wrists. "You are mine now, and that makes your comfort my responsibility. Oh, don't give me that worried look, I'll be sure you're plenty uncomfortable when you need to be, and I have no intention of going easy on you if you misbehave. But I only want you hurting when I make you hurt. That's going to be our first rule: you are to report any unexpected discomfort, fear, or trouble with memories. Repeat it." He held Wolfe by the short strap that connected the cuffs, looking down at him with calm intensity.

"I am to report any unexpected discomfort, fear, or trouble with memories."

Nic released Wolfe's hands, watching as Wolfe lowered them to his lap, his gaze lingering on the erection tenting the silk of Wolfe's robe. "Good. A few more rules to go over, love, then you'll have a reward. Feeling comfortable now?"

Despite his untouched cock - and Wolfe knew better than to even try to touch himself - he was. There always had been something deeply relaxing about sinking into this role, letting go of everything but his trust in Nic's authority. The cuffs felt good on his wrists, soft fur against his skin, just tight enough that he couldn't forget they were there. Even the neglected need in his groin was pleasant, in its way. It reminded him that even his own pleasure was no longer his concern. Nic would take care of that, and waiting would only make the release sweeter when it came. "Yes," he breathed, laying his head on Nic's firm, muscular thigh, the silk of Nic's robe smooth against his cheek.

Slowly, Nic ran his fingers through Wolfe's hair. His nails grazed Wolfe's scalp, lightly scratching the sensitive spot behind Wolfe's ear on every downward stroke. He offered Wolfe another slice of peach, and Wolfe took it, the soft, sweet fruit all but melting in his mouth. "This is the first you've eaten today," Nic said. A statement of fact, Wolfe noticed, not a question.

That meant there was no need to answer, and he could concentrate on the task of cleaning Nic's fingers, all coated in sticky juice. One at a time, he sucked them until they tasted only of skin, and he could see the bulge in Nic's robe growing.

"That will change," Nic said, using his newly-cleaned fingers to tip Wolfe's chin up until their eyes met. His face was the one he wore with his troops, all indisputable power and piercing eyes. "You've given me broad authority, and I intend to fully exercise it. I will be drafting your daily schedule tonight. Mealtimes will be included. You will not miss any, nor will you fail to complete any other assigned tasks. There will be punishments for disobedience."

Punishments. The word, coupled with Nic's stern grip on his chin, sent a shiver of equal parts fear and desire through Wolfe. Nic could be very, very harsh when he wanted to be.

Nic must have seen only the fear; releasing Wolfe's chin, he stroked his cheek and his hair, voice softening. "I will not use pain for punishment. You know why. I will assign chores, lines, and essays, and I may revoke privileges. But no pain. I will give you pain for rewards and catharsis, but never for punishment. Understood?"

Wolfe nodded, letting himself relax at his lover's touch. There was an odd relief to knowing Nic wouldn't hurt him for punishment. It wasn't that he thought he couldn't take a hard caning anymore - he could take far worse pain than anything Nic would do to him - but such a scenario could draw memories to the surface. He would have faced them, if Nic demanded it, and might have been better for it afterward, but he was grateful to avoid the risk, all the same.

And the promise of pain for other purposes brought all manner of lovely fantasies to mind. He'd been itching for a good beating. All he had to do was behave, and he could have it.

If Nic was watching Wolfe's twitching cock, he ignored it. Instead, he said something utterly ridiculous. "I am also giving you a word to call a pause, should you need it. Would you like to choose the word?"

"We don't need..." Wolfe began, stopping when Nic tapped his lips in warning. A tug at his hair forced him to look up at Nic's stern frown.

"We do, and that isn't for you to argue. You agreed to accept any limits I set. This is one. Choose a word, or I will choose for you." Nic didn't say that he would impose consequences for further disagreement. He didn't need to.

They almost never used a code word. It was a reasonable enough concept for strangers engaged in risky play, but Wolfe found it completely unnecessary with his lover of twenty years. They used such things only in the sort of play in which a "no", or a "stop", or any such other logical expression of discomfort would be treated as insincere, and this was not that sort of game. He had quite intentionally given Nic permission to disregard his wishes, and he had no use for a means of revoking that.

Well. Here was Nic, disregarding his wishes, and if he wanted to allow that to continue, he was going to have to go along with it. After all, having the word available didn't mean he had to say the damned thing. "Amber," he said, a word they had used for this purpose before. It brought back memories of their first mission together in Russia, the deadly trap of the amber vault and the sight of that word written in Nic's messy scrawl. Danger and rescue, appropriate associations for this purpose.

Releasing Wolfe's hair, Nic nodded. "Good. You may use that word at any time. It isn't only for punishments or rough play. If you need to stop anything, for any reason, say it and we pause to check in. All right?"

Wolfe nodded, though he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. If it made Nic feel better to have the option, it was worth it, he supposed. His cooperation was rewarded with a slice of peach and soft fingers in his hair.

"One last point to cover, dear Scholar," Nic said. "Activities and toys. Is there anything I should add to the usual list of limits there?"

There were already too many additions to that list as of late. Hot wax, blindfolds, being tied to the bed... It was exhausting to think of the pleasures they'd lost to Wolfe's broken mind. The last thing he wanted to do was lengthen that list.

"No. Nothing to add," he said.

"All right. What about the frequency of sexual service? Do we need to limit that?"

It was all too easy to see where that question came from. Ever since his return home, Wolfe hadn't been able to perform as he had before. He hadn't thought it would be a problem, not for this. "What? My mouth and my ass aren't acceptable to you when I lack an erection? You never had a problem with that before." Wolfe couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. He looked down at his hands, clenched into fists, trying and failing to salvage some scrap of respectful submission. Let Nic punish him for his tone; better that than this coddling. "I don't have to be aroused to serve you."

He expected scolding. A pull of his hair, maybe, some manhandling. Instead, Nic held a handful of apple slices, easily half the fruit, in front of his face.

"Put your mouth to better use," Nic said by way of explanation, pressing the apples against Wolfe's lips.

They'd never used hand feeding as punishment before. It was a little like being gagged, the stretching of his lips and jaw, the fullness of his mouth. He wouldn't be able to speak like this. A little flare of panic at that, quickly snuffed out - the restriction was temporary, and freedom from it within his control. He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the apple. It was hard enough to chew without letting any scraps fall. He didn't think he could stand the embarrassment of that. Bad enough that he had to kneel there with his cheeks puffed out while Nic watched him with the same scrutiny he gave to new recruits.

Nic was silent the whole time Wolfe chewed. Only when Wolfe had swallowed the entirety of the fruit did he say, "Now, I asked you a question, and you have not answered. I need not tell you that I expect better. I will allow for the possibility that I was unclear. Your body is always acceptable to me, and I had no intent to imply otherwise. My concern is with your comfort." He caressed Wolfe's cheek, his soft touch and calm voice as clear a warning as any he could give. "You may attempt to answer again."

It wasn't often that Nic gave second chances, and Wolfe knew from years of experience not to waste this one with any of the sarcasm that came to mind. Nic would want an honest answer, so he gave himself the time to compose one, willing his hands to relax in his lap, one finger at a time. "I don't always feel hunger, even when my body needs food," he said when he was certain of the words. "Sometimes, the idea of eating even disgusts me. But we both know that I need to eat, and you will make me do so. I see no reason to believe that sex is any different. Failure to feel the urge does not mean that I lack the need. It would be no more to my benefit to reduce the frequency of sex than to reduce the frequency of meals. Demand my service as often as you like, my beloved Captain. I will serve gladly."

"A reasonable argument," Nic said. "Very well. You have your word if my demands prove excessive. I think that will be enough discussion. Now, you have earned a reward and a punishment for your behavior while we reviewed expectations. For your punishment, you will forego wine with dinner. For your reward, I will allow you a choice of spanking implement."

That was unexpected, to say the least. Given the state of his cock, erect beyond all reasonable expectation and aching from neglect, Wolfe had expected some form of attention there as his reward. But then, his behavior hadn't been perfect, and Nic did like to make him wait. The trap in the offer of a spanking was obvious: with no number of blows specified, he would have to be a fool to choose one of their harsher toys, but he risked an unsatisfying reward if he opted for something softer. Without enough information to make a logical choice, he let sentiment make the decision. "Your hand, please, dear Captain." The intimacy of it appealed to him; nothing but skin on skin.

Nic looked pleased with the choice, smiling as he said, "Up you get." He bent to take hold of Wolfe's harness in a barely disguised offer of assistance in obeying that order.

Wolfe accepted it, more grateful than he wanted to be for the support of Nic's grasp when his stiff legs protested the change in position. This was the inevitable outcome of neglecting his Medica-recommended exercises. A week of Nic's training regimen, which would no doubt be more demanding, might just have him moving more easily again.

"Bend over the table." Letting go of the harness, Nic cleared the surface, downing the small amount of wine left in Wolfe's glass as he picked it up.

As smoothly as his stiff body would allow, Wolfe positioned himself with his arms stretched out to grasp the opposite side of the table and his legs apart. Exactly as Nic liked him.

Circling around the table, Nic pulled Wolfe's robe to the side, exposing his ass. Not so much as the touch of a finger on the newly bared skin, but Wolfe could feel his lover's eyes on him, and that gaze burned. If it were possible to reach orgasm from a look alone, he would have. Heat pulsed through his cock, his ass, his legs, making him grateful for the support of the table. He felt like squirming. He didn't. He knew Nic's expectations.

He did let himself whine when Nic walked back around the table, toward the kitchen. He wouldn't squirm, he wouldn't beg, but he would allow himself a little whine to egg Nic on.

Not that it worked. Nic took a very long time in the kitchen.

Bent over with his ass on display and his erection bumping the underside of the table, Wolfe waited. His pulse thundered in his ears. Sweat dripped from his brow. Every sound from the kitchen inspired speculation. Nic was washing the wineglasses and plate. Nic was finishing the bottle by himself. Nic was cooking dinner and intended to make him wait until it was done. Nic was standing there grinning like a fool while Wolfe tried not to squirm. All of it too plausible.

Nic emerged, walking at the most sedate pace Wolfe had ever seen while he rolled up the sleeves of his robe. "Isn't this a beautiful sight?" Smiling down at Wolfe, he tucked a loose strand of sweat-damp hair back behind Wolfe's ear. "You're being so patient for me. Are you ready for your spanking?"

"Yes. Gods, yes. I'm ready." He was babbling, his voice full of pathetic desperation. The embarrassment at that only fueled the fire in his loins.

"Ask nicely," Nic purred. He walked around the table to stand behind Wolfe, a single fingertip tracing a line from the top of Wolfe's head down his spine to his tailbone, where it lingered.

He had to beg. Nic was making him beg. How shamefully, infuriatingly arousing. "Please, Captain. Please spank me. I need to be spanked. Please." His face was so hot that even if his color had fully recovered, the red would have shown through the brown.

"Such pretty manners now." Nic rubbed Wolfe's bottom with both hands, starting light, but increasing the pressure with every downward stroke. "Just think of what nice things you could have if you behaved so well all of the time. You know how generous I can be, don't you?"

His fingertips brushed Wolfe's balls. Wolfe groaned. "Yes. So generous. Yes."

Cupping Wolfe's ass in both hands, Nic leaned over Wolfe's back to murmur in his ear. "And because I am so generous, after I spank this lovely ass until it turns as red as your face, I'm going to let you come. Would you like that?"

There was a trick in that, but Wolfe could neither see it nor care through the sweltering fog of desire. Nic's hard cock rubbed against Wolfe's balls. Nic's thumbs slid between his cheeks to rub his entrance. There was not a chance in the world that Nic was going to fuck him. Not this easily. His mind knew that, but his idiot body pushed back against those thumbs, and his mouth went along with it, moaning, "Yes. Please, Captain."

In answer, Nic took a step back. His hands lifted, and only one came back down. Hard.

Delicious pain radiated across Wolfe's skin, magnified quickly by another hard slap, then another.

A series of blows in quick succession, then Nic slowed, saying between impacts, "I know why you asked for my hand. All the nice toys we have, and you asked for my hand. Because you need it, don't you?"

An especially hard blow at that, right in the sensitive spot at the top of Wolfe's thighs. "Yes," he gasped, the sting dancing on his skin.

Nic smacked him again in exactly the same place, sending a spike of pain blazing along his nerves. Another sharp strike to the other side as he went on, "You need to be reminded that I can make you come undone. With Nothing. But. My. Hand." Each word was punctuated by another blow, one on top of the other.

All Wolfe could do was moan his agreement. Gods, yes, he did want to come undone by Nic's hand. He wanted to be utterly, completely Nic's, controlled and consumed by Nic's power, and Nic's power alone.

"But I don't even need that much," Nic said, his voice turning gentle in contrast with the harsh work of his hand. "When I'm done spanking you, I'm only going to need two fingers to make you come. And you're going to beg."

He gave Wolfe just enough time to grasp his intent, and then he quickened the pace. His hand landed in time with Wolfe's pulse, so fast that one blow bled into the next, until there was nothing but constant, throbbing pain. Over the twin drumbeats of Nic's hand and his own heartbeat, Wolfe could hear himself, moaning like a wild creature, all shame abandoned. He didn't care about that anymore. He didn't care about anything at all. There was only the feeling. The stinging, burning feeling.

When Nic finished, the sting remained, sparks flaring up from the burning ember that was Wolfe's body as Nic rubbed his beaten ass with oddly slippery hands. A long moment passed before Wolfe's nose processed the herbal scent. Lotion. It was lotion. Lotion to soothe the abused skin. But also...

A single long finger slid between his rear cheeks. Slick and slow, it circled his entrance. "Do you want this, my sweet Scholar?" Nic asked, warm and gentle.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." It was the only word that would stick in Wolfe's overwhelmed mind. Yes, he wanted that finger. Yes.

The circling continued. Nic's other hand pinned Wolfe's hips to the table, keeping him from thrusting himself onto that maddening finger. "Manners, darling," Nic chided, sticky sweet. "Ask nicely."

"Please." Wolfe groaned, dragging the word from brain to tongue. That wasn't enough. There was more. He had to be respectful. "Captain. Please. Please."

"Better." Slow as pouring honey, the finger pressed in. "See what you get for good behavior, my love? Don't you want to be good for me?"

Nic curled his finger, and Wolfe's response came out as an unintelligible cry. The soft touch carried from prostate to cock and back again, unbearable reverberations of pleasure with every easy slide of that one finger. One single finger, and he was a moaning, sobbing mess. His hands clung to the edge of the table as if his life depended on it. His hips strained against the hand that held them fast.

But it wasn't enough. It was so intense he could scarcely think, and it wasn't enough. The feeling filled him until he was sure he would burst, but the climax wouldn't come. It just kept building, building, without release. He let out a strangled, desperate cry.

"What's wrong, my love?" Nic asked. So warm. So sweet. The sound of his voice made Wolfe ache like the touch of his finger. "Is there something you need?"

"Please," Wolfe sobbed. He had never hated Nic more. Never loved Nic more. "Please." It was all he could say. He was nothing but need in Nic's hands. "_Please_."

"Poor thing," Nic crooned. "I've pushed you so hard, haven't I? But I can be generous. I can be merciful. Be still for me, my love."

Still. Be still. It was every bit as hard as forming the words to beg, but Wolfe did it. Nic ordered it, so he did it. Focused as he was on the effort of keeping his hips in place despite the finger teasing him from within, he didn't even feel Nic's other hand until it was already between his legs.

One fingertip, just one fingertip, slid over his balls, up his shaft. Over his drawn-back foreskin. Onto his head. It wrapped around.

At that touch, nothing in the world could keep Wolfe still. But he didn't need to. At that touch, his climax came, and that was everything.

Smell was the first of his senses to recover, if only because the input was so strong, and there was no way to shut himself off from it. Sex and sweat and lotion, each pungent in its own way.

He couldn't hear anything but his own panting. Couldn't feel anything but the aftershocks in his groin and the smoldering fire of his ass. The rest of his body might as well have been numb.

He couldn't see either, with his eyes tightly shut, but it occurred to him that he could fix that. He blinked until the blur of light and shadow came clear.

Nic's hand rested on the table in front of his face, dripping with white liquid. Taste, then, would be the next sense to return to him. No need to wait for the order. He poked out his tongue and lapped at the nearest finger. Salty. Bitter. More than usual, with the undertone of the lotion. Not the most pleasant of flavors, but he knew his place. It was his duty to clean up. After such a generous reward, there was real pleasure in showing his gratitude this way. The hand that had so gloriously undone him deserved it.

There was a certain lazy satisfaction to moments like this. As he sucked on each finger, Wolfe's eyes followed the lines of his partner's hand, up along a tanned and furred forearm, up over biceps covered in shining blue-and-gold brocade, up over broad shoulders and a neck made for kissing, up to his lover's smiling face.

Gods, how he loved that smile.

"You're being so good for me," Nic said in a voice as soft as silk and warm as sunlight. "So attentive." He lifted his hand, turned it over to examine it, and seeing that it was clean, stroked Wolfe's cheek with damp fingers.

Wolfe leaned into the touch, only for a moment. There were drips on the table. His work was not yet done.

Nic rubbed the back of Wolfe's neck while he licked the table clean. "Have I worn you out, my sweet Scholar? Or do you have it in you to provide further service?"

Service. Oh. Of course. There was Nic's cock, still a firm bulge beneath the fabric of his robe. That wouldn't do. Pushing up on arms that felt stronger with renewed purpose, Wolfe leaned forward toward that bulge. "I will serve you gladly," he said, proud that his voice came out even, only a little breathy.

To Wolfe's frustration, Nic stepped away, his smile widening. "Oh, no, you don't get to have that yet," Nic said with a chuckle. "I have dinner to cook. Come and chop the vegetables. If you do it well, I may let you suck me off when you've finished."

Wolfe's balls felt like they'd been wrung dry. That didn't stop him from feeling a tug of need from that region at the thought of kneeling on the kitchen floor between Nic's legs, swallowing Nic's cock while Nic cooked. "Yes, Captain. Of course," he said, leaning on the table as he stood upright. The fall of the cool fabric of his robe over his reddened ass made him shiver, but his legs held.

Still grinning, Nic hooked a finger through the strap between Wolfe's cuffs and gave a sharp tug. Wolfe followed. For once, he found himself looking forward to kitchen chores.


	6. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his first morning as Nic's full-time sub, Wolfe enjoys his new duties. Nic tests Wolfe's boundaries, inspiring a moment of panic, but some sweet dominance gets things back on track.
> 
> Chapter-specific content: oral sex, hand feeding, mild humiliation, spanking, butt plug insertion, urophilia mention (just a threat, no action)

Wolfe had never considered himself a morning person. Waking early was a habit he'd trained himself into because it was expected of a Scholar, one that there had been no point in reestablishing after his return home. So when his alarm clock blared at him in the pre-dawn hours, he almost ignored it. Nic had set Wolfe's instead of his own by accident, that was all. That hadn't happened in years of living together, but, well, there was a first time for everything.

The second ring jolted his sleep-fogged mind into sufficient alertness to recognize the significant error in that line of thinking, and he hastened to silence the clock, a jolt of anxiety driving the last of his drowsiness away. He wasn't supposed to wake Nic. He had his orders. That thought sent a warm tide of arousal through him. Orders. Exactly what he'd been craving. No lying in bed with nothing to do all day.

He lay quietly for a moment, listening to Nic's breathing. Still asleep, or at least feigning it convincingly. Careful not to disturb his partner, Wolfe slipped out of bed. He searched the closet by the light of the dim glow they kept on at night, digging through things he hadn't worn in a longer time than he wanted to think about until he found the single item of clothing that he would be permitted to wear for the day. Nic had, no doubt in unnecessary concession to Wolfe's fragility, given him permission to choose any garment he wished. Nic probably expected Wolfe to choose a long robe, the kind he'd all too recently required like a damned security blanket, but Wolfe had never been one to merely meet expectations. Pushing aside the more familiar and comfortable items in his closet, he selected a long tunic in the style of ancient Rome, midnight blue with a bit of silvery embroidery.

Worn without a toga, it would historically have been the garment of a slave, if a somewhat pampered one. The thought of that was deeply arousing, as was the memory of how much Nic had enjoyed seeing him in in the last time he'd worn it. Idly, Wolfe's hand strayed toward his hardening cock, but he stopped himself short. Nic's orders in that area had been very clear.

With the tunic in hand, he tiptoed to the bathroom for a shower almost too brief to qualify as such. On this, too, Nic's orders had left no room for interpretation. He had until the sand in the small hourglass ran out, only barely enough time to wash his hair and scrub away the sweat of a hot night. No time to shave. A day ago, he wouldn't have cared about that, but looking good for Nic _mattered_ now, and Wolfe's ideas of attractiveness had always leaned Alexandrian. The sight of his hair-covered legs sticking out from the tunic was almost enough to make him regret the choice of it.

_If Nic wants you shaved, he'll order you to do it_, he growled at himself as he stalked into the kitchen to make the coffee. This was usually Nic's chore, but Wolfe knew the process well enough. Grind the beans, put the coffee pot on, brew to Nic's preferred strength, steam the milk, pour. Tedious, really, but satisfying when performed as an act of service. He used their best mugs and saucers, and added a plate of biscotti to the tray. Nic rarely ate much in the morning, but he'd ordered Wolfe to bring food. Another bit of mother-henning, or maybe a scheme to make Wolfe eat from his hand again.

That thought brought heat to Wolfe's face and groin alike.

In the bedroom, Nic lay sprawled on his back, softly snoring. Dark stubble on his chin, his jaw slack, strong limbs relaxed. The sight of him like this always inspired a certain tenderness. He looked so peaceful, so calm, as if he hadn't a care in the world. Wolfe doubted he looked so good in slumber himself. Leaving the tray of coffee on the nightstand, Wolfe pulled back the sheet and surveyed the landscape of his lover's body. Nic always slept nude, giving Wolfe a fine view of tattooed skin and powerful muscles, and, most importantly, a rigid cock standing at attention between splayed thighs. Typical of Nic to get hard in his sleep, and very much to Wolfe's advantage.

Salivating from the aroma of the coffee and the sight of his lover's erection, Wolfe positioned himself between Nic's legs and set to work on his next task. The morning's schedule allowed time to savor this duty, and Wolfe had every intention of doing just that. Nic's was, after all, a cock worth savoring. He started with kisses, feather-light, from root to tip and all along Nic's thighs and hips. He buried his face in the thicket of Nic's pubic hair, letting it tickle his nose while his tongue traced the line where cock met body. Nic smelled of sleep sweat, not a smell Wolfe normally appreciated, but a fitting one. A master did not need to wash and perfume himself for his servant, and it was not Wolfe's place to have such expectations.

Nic shifted beneath him, legs opening wider as he let out a soft sigh. Wolfe took that as his cue to move on to his lover's balls, drawing first one, then the other into his mouth and swirling his tongue around them while Nic groaned sleepily. They hung loose in the heat, but drew tighter under his attentions. From the balls, he worked his way up Nic's shaft, still not taking the whole of it, but mouthing at the sensitive flesh and encouraging Nic to wake with quick flicks of his tongue. He mapped every inch and every vein, took in the textures of foreskin and head, and tasted salty evidence of his success at the tip.

A moment later, a firm hand caught him by the hair. With a wordless growl, Nic pressed him down, and Wolfe had no need for specific orders to know what his commander expected. Opening his mouth and relaxing his throat, he took Nic's full length, even though Nic lightened the pressure at the halfway point. His gag reflex wasn't so bad anymore; he could give Nic his full service. No sooner did he have the whole of Nic's cock than the hand in his hair urged him back up to gaze upon Nic's radiant smile while he licked the head of Nic's cock. A view he'd always enjoyed, and one that he found especially satisfying now. He was pleasing his master, his commander, his love, and he drank the silent praise in along with Nic's cock as he bobbed back down.

Gentle fingers combed through his still-damp hair, and he followed that pace, slowly sliding up and down Nic's length. He'd always liked being woken this way himself, with a lazy, relaxed progression toward an invigorating climax, and Nic seemed quite satisfied as well, stretching and moaning luxuriously. 

"I feel like Caesar," Nic murmured. "Waking to the attentive service of a beautiful man."

Blatant flattery, but Wolfe accepted it with a hum around the cock in his mouth. Let Nic imagine him beautiful; it was part of the fantasy, after all. Nic's hand tightened in Wolfe's hair, guiding him to pick up the pace. Wolfe gladly complied, and before long, the taste of Nic's satisfaction filled his mouth.

With Nic softening, Wolfe started to raise his head, but Nic pushed him back down, saying with a delicious note of warning, "Did I say you were finished?"

Drawing his lover's soft cock back into his mouth, Wolfe shifted to relieve the ache building in his shoulders, getting comfortable for a long wait. Even in their youth, Nic had never recovered quickly from orgasm. But if he wanted to challenge Wolfe to get a second climax out of him before work, Wolfe wouldn't back down from that. Keeping Nic's cock in his mouth was hardly an onerous order to follow, after all. Sucking gently, he traced the underside of Nic's cock with the tip of his tongue, testing the sensitivity. Even soft, Nic was a delicious mouthful, and there was more than a little pleasure in exploring the contours and textures of him, noting the places that made him twitch.

Nic's hand remained a firm presence on his head. "You know," Nic said, slowly, idly, casually enough to send a chill down Wolfe's spine, "You've given me permission to use you as I please. Maybe I should keep you there, use your mouth to save myself a trip to the bathroom."

Wolfe froze, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from beneath him.

_No_.

Nic wouldn't.

_Not that._

He knew Wolfe wouldn't want... neither of them liked... But there was the catch, wasn't it? The act appealed to neither of them, so Wolfe had never specifically named it as a limit.

Anger followed hot on the heels of shock. Nic was trying to force him to use the word they'd agreed on. The manipulative bastard. It was an impossible dilemma. Give up so soon on his conviction not to use that damned word, or submit to...

And beneath that, a dark undercurrent of arousal mingled with the surging disgust that churned in his guts. Not at the act itself - the very thought of it made him ill. But the thought of being so disregarded, so degraded, of giving himself so completely to Nic that he would do a thing that repulsed him, that held a certain shameful appeal. 

He had to respond. He couldn't. If he didn't, the decision would be made for him. At the thought of that, of hot, foul liquid filling his mouth, he coughed, gagged, fought to hold his position.

Nic's hands, warm and strong, seized him under the arms and drew him up to sit in Nic's lap. "Shh," Nic whispered, holding him tight. "I wasn't going to do it. I wanted to make a point, but I've fucked it up, haven't I?'

He'd cried out, when Nic pulled him up. He realized that only in retrospect, and it flooded him with shame. Not hot embarrassment, but the chilling certainty of failure. He shook with it. Might have been shaking all along, clinging to Nic like the useless thing he was. He'd been given a week to prove himself, and only a day in he was already demonstrating his unfitness for his role. Pathetic. As if he hadn't endured things far worse than what Nic had threatened. A moment's disgust should be nothing compared to...

_No. Don't think of that._

A firm arm pressed against his lower back, wrapping around to anchor him. Warm fingers traced the line of a scar. It was the kind of touch that Wolfe usually appreciated, the kind that grounded him in the present when his mind wandered toward the past, but now it only served to remind him of how ridiculous he was being. He swallowed, hard, though his mouth was dry, and he grappled for the words to explain himself. "I'm here. I'm sorry." His voice sounded too raspy, his words clumsy. He should be better than this. Clearing his throat, he tried to push himself away from Nic. If he could get to his knees, maybe, he could summon up a proper apology.

Nic's arm held fast. "Stay there. Breathe." Clear, direct orders, spoken gently, but with authority.

Wolfe obeyed, and after a few long, deep breaths, Nic brought a cup of coffee to his lips.

"Drink."

The coffee was still quite warm, and it tasted far better than it should have, rich and creamy, sweetness and bitterness in balance. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he'd gulped down half the cup. With a pang of embarrassment, it occurred to him that it came as a relief to taste coffee instead of Nic. Pathetic. He was supposed to like his lover's taste. But his mouth had been filled with the illusory flavor of a thing that hadn't even happened.

"Better?" Nic asked.

Wolfe nodded. "Forgive me, Captain. That was-"

A finger on his lips cut off his apology. "Hush. That won't be necessary. Was it a memory?"

No difficult task to work out what Nic was really asking. The same question that was always on Nic's mind, particularly when something revealed the cracks in Wolfe's patched-together mind. Had _that_ happened to him in the prison? It wasn't a topic Wolfe wished to think about, let alone discuss. "No," he said, which was as much as the question required.

The question. He couldn't suppress a shudder at that. With a sigh, he dragged his thoughts back to the issue at hand. "There's nothing you need to worry about. I am prepared to serve you, my captain, in any way you desire. Even... even that." He couldn't quite bring himself to say it, but now that he'd had time to prepare himself, he could do it, if that was what Nic wanted from him.

"No. I'm not going to hurt you, Chris," Nic said, the use of Wolfe's name a sign that he'd put his role aside. "I'll take control, I'll satisfy your desire for pain, I'll put you on your place, but I will not ever intentionally cause you anguish. I'm sorry for suggesting that I would."

The apology was unnecessary as far as Wolfe was concerned, but he resisted the urge to argue. Nic's point was sinking in, if perhaps not in the exact way Nic had intended. It would be hypocritical to argue that Nic had the authority to force him into acts that repulsed him but not the authority to determine when apologies were necessary. He laid his head against Nic's shoulder and took a slow breath, willing himself to accept the apology and whatever else Nic chose to give him.

Undoubtedly sensing Wolfe's resistance, Nic kissed Wolfe's hair and said, "You've given yourself to me, _amore mio_, and that makes you my most precious possession. I take good care of my things, don't I?"

"Yes, Captain." Wolfe thought of Nic's uniforms and equipment, all meticulously maintained. Of the leather boots he had been tasked with oiling to Nic's satisfaction as one of his chores. Of other leather things, too.

"That's right. And you're going to behave and let me take care of you." Nic's voice was like a lion's purr, powerful and satisfied with that power. He traced a finger over Wolfe's lips, deceptively light, and allowed Wolfe to take it into his mouth to suck. "Are you hungry, dear Scholar?"

Something of a surprise to realize that, upon thinking about it, he was. The coffee had cleansed his stomach of its twisting disgust, but it hadn't been enough to fill him. "Yes, Captain," he said, reluctantly letting Nic's finger go.

"Good, because you're going to eat for me," Nic said. He took one of the biscotti from the plate, dipped it into Wolfe's cup, and brought it dripping to Wolfe's lips. "I'm sure I needn't tell you that it will be your responsibility to clean up," he whispered in Wolfe's ear. Coffee dripped from Nic's fingers. Down his wrist. Onto both their chests and the arm that wrapped around Wolfe's waist.

With the same hot rush of embarrassment and arousal as he'd felt at being fed the night before, Wolfe took as big a bite as he could manage and chewed slowly, thinking of how pleasurable it would be to lick drips of coffee from his lover's skin. Nic took a drink of his own coffee while he waited, then dunked the biscotti back into Wolfe's cup, slowly swirling it around. The sight of it brought any number of desirable things to Wolfe's mind, and he swallowed, opening his mouth almost by reflex to be fed another bite.

"Very good," Nic murmured as Wolfe ate. "So well behaved for me."

Between the two of them, they finished the plate. As soon as he'd taken his last sip of coffee, Nic offered his hand to Wolfe to clean, and Wolfe sucked each coffee-flavored finger slowly, looking up to watch Nic's eyes darken with arousal. He worked his way from fingers, to hand, to wrist, and down Nic's arm in broad, slow licks, saving the few drips on Nic's chest for last. Sadly, the coffee had missed Nic's nipples entirely, but that didn't stop Wolfe from detouring there after he'd lapped up the last drip. He had just time enough to suck his lover's nipple in and give an experimental flick of his tongue over it before Nic pulled him back by the hair.

"We're going to have to work on obedience, aren't we?" Nic said, his voice stern but his expression fond.

The hand in his hair loosened, and Wolfe sank to his knees in front of his lover, ignoring the protestations of his stiff back to bend and kiss Nic's feet in apology. "As you wish, my Captain," he said, his gaze to the floor.

"Let us have a little training exercise, then," Nic said. "I need a shower..."

Wolfe's heart leapt as his mind filled with delicious images of serving Nic in the shower - always a favorite for them both - only to sink again as Nic continued.

"...and while I attend to that, you will prepare my uniform for me, then set out your plugs and a bottle of lubricant and bend over the desk to wait for me. I want to see good form when I come back."

Disappointing. No getting around that. But arousing, too, to be denied one pleasure and forced to wait for another. "Yes, Captain," he said, his voice coming out with an embarrassing hint of a moan. He knew what Nic usually had in mind when he used a plug. He stood immediately, as he knew Nic would not tolerate any delay, and started toward the closet.

Nic slapped Wolfe's ass on his way to the bathroom, hard enough that Wolfe felt the heat of it lingering while he laid out Nic's uniform. Not an especially difficult task, that. Nic always kept his things neatly arranged and ready to go. Just the standard duty uniform for today, not the more decorative dress uniform or any of the camouflaged battle variants. Most of it could just be taken down from its hanger and laid out on the bed, which Wolfe tidied while he was at it, knowing that Nic preferred to have it neatly made. He grabbed socks and underwear from a drawer, along with the thick leather belt where Nic would attach his weapons. Those, Wolfe left in their places for Nic to retrieve himself. Nic could be sensitive about him handling weapons.

He let his hands linger on the belt, thinking of all the ways they'd used Nic's uniform belts over the years. Such a versatile implement, a belt, and so easily transported. An important concern for so much of their lives, the ease of bringing a toy along on missions. He supposed that wouldn't matter so much anymore.

That wasn't a productive direction for his thoughts. Thank all the gods he had Nic's orders to turn his focus to. First, the plugs. Plural, not singular. He wasn't getting a choice in which one would be used, and Nic also wasn't telling him in advance which it would be. He took the wooden box containing his collection of plugs from its place in his drawer and set it on the desk with the lubricant, resisting the urge to look inside. Quickly as Nic usually showered, Wolfe doubted he had much time left.

The bedroom desk wasn't exactly large, but once he'd put away the journals and papers stacked on top, Wolfe had just enough room to bend himself over it without knocking over the lube or the plugs. He spread his legs to the width of the desk legs, the way Nic liked, and he considered the relative merits of flipping his tunic up to expose his ass. Unnecessary, he decided. Positioned as he was, his ass was already very much on display. It would be the first thing Nic saw when he came back from the bathroom.

Any minute, now. Wolfe listened for the water, but didn't hear it. Nic would be getting out of the shower, dripping wet. Rubbing a towel over glistening muscles. Shaving. Oh, how Wolfe wished he could trust his hands to stay steady enough to offer that service. He couldn't help but remember his own hairy legs, and he cringed inwardly. What a shameful display he was putting on for Nic, with his ass in the air, his unshaven legs, his cock boldly announcing his arousal at it all.

Footsteps. Nic's; he knew them well. In case that wasn't enough, Nic hummed as he walked into the bedroom, a High Garda marching song with a number of rather bawdy unapproved verses. Wolfe couldn't see his partner from his position at the desk, and to his frustration, Nic gave no acknowledgment of having seen Wolfe at all. A perfectly infuriating reminder to Wolfe of his place. His cock throbbed. His ass itched. His legs were getting sore. His body yearned to shift, to twitch, to get Nic's attention with a seductive wiggle of his hips.

As if that would impress Nic in the least.

He listened to the rustle of clothing and tried to picture the sight behind him. Nic stepping into his underwear. Tight shorts over firm ass and thighs. Pulling on trousers, shirt...

Nic's footsteps told him the real man had dressed faster than Wolfe's imagination of him did. With each step came the faint jingle of the belt buckle, definitely not fastened, sending Wolfe's imagination in an entirely different and highly appealing direction.

"Look at you, following orders so well," Nic said with silky satisfaction. "Such a lovely picture you make like this, dear Scholar, all ready and waiting for me." Standing behind Wolfe, he rubbed Wolfe's ass through the thin fabric of the tunic.

Wolfe stifled a groan and forced his hips to remain still while Nic's hand explored. A light, almost tickling slide over both cheeks, down his thighs, and back up, lifting the tunic to leave Wolfe exposed.

In a teasing reminder of the night before, Nic traced Wolfe's erection with a single finger. "It feels good to behave for me, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Captain." The words came out with a groan; there was no helping it.

The tantalizing finger made its way over his balls and up the crack of his ass. "All of this is mine," Nic said, low and possessive. "Mine to enjoy as I please."

For a heartbeat, Wolfe let himself hope. Nic might be hard again, by now.

But as his finger circled Wolfe's entrance, Nic said, "I intend to make use of this lovely ass when I get home from work. I expect it will be a long, boring day, and I will not want to wait. I will not want to bother with preparing you. I want you ready for me the moment I walk in the door."

Wolfe moaned at the touch, a desperate sound that made what blood was not already pulsing in his nether regions rush to his face.

Nic reached past Wolfe for the box of plugs, picking it up to set on Wolfe's back, the lid open, while he lubricated his fingers. "Be still, now," he said. "Wouldn't want that box to fall."

That was all the warning he gave before two fingers thrust into Wolfe, working him open with brisk, sharp motions. No consideration at all for Wolfe's pleasure in it, no attention to his prostate. Indeed, Nic seemed to be avoiding that sensitive spot altogether. This, very clearly, was not for Wolfe's benefit. There was a certain comfort to that, for all that his cock ached at the neglect; without the demand of building toward orgasm, he could better appreciate the feeling of sliding fingers and the vulnerability of allowing those fingers to loosen him for what would come next. 

As abruptly as they had entered, the fingers withdrew, and Wolfe heard the sound of a plug being taken from the box. Impossible to know which. Wolfe wasn't sure he could have selected one for himself, had Nic asked. His unsatisfied hole begged for his largest one, even one of Nic's larger ones, while his remaining shreds of sense suggested that smaller might be better under the circumstances. Irrelevant, though. His opinion was irrelevant, as he wanted it to be.

Cool steel pressed at his hole. Not much of a clue on its own. Most of his plugs were steel, a material that made him think of Nic. Firm, strong, unyielding, it penetrated him, _Nic_ penetrated him, stretching him wider than the two fingers had before narrowing again. He could feel his body, greedy thing that it was, gripping the neck of the plug. No, not the neck. None of his plugs had a neck so wide, and even his smallest would have filled him more. No sooner had the realization dawned than the plug resumed its inward progress, stretching him wider this time as a second sphere of steel slid into him. A moment's chill as it entered, but it quickly warmed to the temperature of his body, and Wolfe knew by the feel of it which plug it had to be. Three spheres of steel, each larger than the one before, and the third yet to come. His favorite. Nic had chosen Wolfe's favorite. The sensation of warm fullness spread to his heart, and, unprompted, he found himself panting, "Thank you, Captain."

"This isn't for you, my dear," Nic purred, and pressed the plug inward once more. The stretch was almost painful this time, a deeply satisfying pain, made all the more so by the sound of Nic's voice, low with desire and every bit as unyielding as the plug's steel. "This is for me. This ass is mine, and when I get home today, all I'm going to have to do is pull this-" he wiggled the plug, inserted to its widest point, and Wolfe couldn't hold back a moan "-out, and put my cock in. I am going to fuck you hard today, my Scholar, and you are going to take it." With that, Nic gave the plug a final push, sending it driving into Wolfe's prostate hard enough to make his hips buck reflexively.

"Just a taste of what you'll be getting later," Nic said, catching the box of plugs before it could slide from Wolfe's back and relocating it to the desk. He took a step back, and Wolfe heard the jingle of the belt buckle. "But we both have a long day ahead of us, and I think you could do with some motivation. Something to keep you focused on your orders." Very lightly, he trailed the end of his belt over Wolfe's backside.

Gods, Nic knew him well. The plug alone would serve as a constant reminder of the role he'd chosen for himself, and the knowledge of what Nic had planned for him would certainly reinforce that, but there was nothing like the belt to get him into the right frame of mind, or the lingering ache of it to keep him there. "Please, Captain," he groaned.

In answer, Nic swung the belt. It landed with a hard slap, the force of the blow driving the plug into Wolfe's prostate. Competing flares of pain and pleasure raced along Wolfe's nerves, and he cried out. In pain. In pleasure. In need.

Nic let the wave of sensation crest and fall before he swung again, just as hard. Hot pain blossomed, swelled, making Wolfe's eyes water, and slowly faded. It continued like that for a dozen blows, at least. Caught up in the intensity of feeling, Wolfe didn't bother to count them. Each one was an entity unto itself, a unique bite of leather on skin, a new angle of motion for the plug within. Nic was good, his aim precise. He didn't hit the same place twice. Until he did. Quite deliberately. And, oh, gods, how beautifully that hurt.

It ended with the whole surface of his ass aflame with a stinging ache that showed no signs of letting up, his prostate tender, and his balls drawn in tight, as close to orgasm as Wolfe could get without so much as a stiff breeze to his cock. Over the heavy sound of his own breathing, he could just hear Nic putting the belt on. Leather through belt loops, buckle jingling. Nic was going to wear that belt all day, and Wolfe was going to feel it.

He was still turning that lovely thought over in his mind when Nic guided him, firmly but gently, upright, and then down again. Into the hard wooden chair that sat beside the desk. He whimpered as the abused skin of his ass made contact with the seat, and the plug shifted inside him. Nic's hands lifted away, and Wolfe blinked his eyes open to see his lover looking down at him, grinning.

"Feels good to have some discipline, doesn't it?" Nic said, looking pointedly at the erection tenting the fabric of Wolfe's tunic. Only barely covered by it at all. "Go on, touch yourself. Show me how much you like being mine."

Though his arms were sore from holding his position over the desk and wobbly from the intensity of the spanking, Wolfe obeyed. It didn't so much as occur to him to do otherwise. Pushing the tunic out of the way, he took his erection in hand and have it a long, slow pull, looking up into Nic's eyes as he knew Nic liked.

He couldn't have deserved the pride he saw there. The satisfaction. The warmth in Nic's voice as Nic said, "Very good. I have to leave for work very soon, but I want to see you come first. Can you do that for me, my sweet Scholar?"

Could he? Of course he could. Nic asked it of him, so he could. Aroused as he was, he wouldn't need long. But how long? Nic hadn't said, and that only increased the urgency of the task. He moved his hand faster, wishing he had more lubrication than the few drips at the tip of his cock to speed him along. He knew better than to ask. If Nic wanted him to have lubrication, Nic would have given it to him. With a rush of embarrassment, he knew what he had to do. Rubbing the plug against his prostate would bring him to his climax faster, as would pain. All he had to do was put on an utterly undignified display of grinding his ass against the chair.

With a groan of mingled shame and pleasure, he gripped the chair with his free hand for support and pressed his sore ass down onto it. He circled his hips, he tugged at his cock, and he looked up into Nic's face despite his every instinct screaming that he ought to hide himself. What a sight he must have been for Nic, watery-eyed and panting, his hair wild and his body writhing in the chair, all dignity abandoned.

"So good," Nic murmured in Italian. "So obedient. Beautiful."

Wolfe's orgasm came like a bolt of lightning, strong and fast, splattering over his things and tunic.

Nic smiled down at him. Cupping Wolfe's cheek, he leaned in for a kiss, softer and sweeter than Wolfe expected it to be. Resting his forehead against Wolfe's, he asked, "How do you feel, my love?" Still in Italian, the rhythm of it as sweet as his lips. Softly, his thumb brushed the tears from Wolfe's eyes.

"Good..." Wolfe said. He had to pause for a breath to steady his voice, shaky with the aftereffects of his climax. "Very good. Thank you, Captain."

Nic straightened, one hand lingering in Wolfe's hair. "Clean up your legs, but keep that tunic on. I like seeing proof of what I can do to you. Your schedule for the day is on the table. I'll expect a full report tonight, after I've had my way with you."

A thrill of anticipation coiled deep within Wolfe at the thought of that. For the first time in weeks, he found that he very much looked forward to the day ahead.


End file.
